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#goddamn so many different names to tag

sorryimananti-romantic · 10 days

Note

so i js finished re-reading biker!san with a friend n we NEED to know if san plays w reader or not

could you give a brief summarisation of how their story ends (or possibly a pt.2 👀)?

ahaha i read it again and i don't think i can do a full oneshot but what about a scenario? 👀

badboybiker!san x photographer!reader: (pt 1 here)

[recap: you're a photographer trying to get a shot of the golden hour for a little competition when a stranger offers to help you in any way he can. since he's a biker, you think his silhouette would make for a perfect shot and you ask him to model for you. you promise to treat him if you win some prize and he accepts on the condition that he let you take around on his bike. when he tells you his name- choi san- you recognise him as the 'bad boy' of the neighbourhood. even knowing that you should avoid him, you can't resist his charms and get familiar with him thru texts. you take him to the dinner and he gives you a ride home and when you mention that you would like to take a shot of the river next time, he asks if he can tag along- as an 'assistant'. you smile in answer]

one thing about choi san is that he knows how to get his way.

in the past few weeks, you learned a few facts about him- that his bike is his baby and no one can touch it without his permission, that only a selected few get to ride on it (which makes you wonder how you got into that list so quickly) and that he is a very fun person to be around. he has manners, he definitely knows how to treat a woman and he might be a little too good at it.

what you also learned from your friends was that he was the notorious playboy of the town, rumoured to have broken the hearts of many and having a repute for getting into fights, being involved with the wrong company and whatnot. you told yourself that these are just 'rumours' because what you heard is very different from what you've seen firsthand.

though... he is a flirt, whether intentional or not. you've convinced yourself that you wouldn't become another woman on his list if he is that sort of a person, that it is possible for the two of you to be 'just friends', however loose the definition might be.

because if you were just friends, you wouldn't be getting excited whenever you heard the buzzing of your phone around midnight. if you were just friends, you wouldn't feel disappointed to see someone else texted you or you wouldn't be disappointed if he didn't reply within a few hours. if you were just friends, your heart wouldn't skip a beat every time you saw that beautifully sculpted face of his with those dark tendrils of hair falling on his forehead, messed up from his helmet. you wouldn't be shy when you wrapped your arms around his toned, strong waist when on the bike or when you grabbed his muscular arms, realising just how broad he was. you wouldn't want him to continue teasing you, smiling at you, tucking your hair back so casually or leaning in to whisper things in your ears with that goddamned smile of his- even when the two of you were alone.

the thing was... that he caught your eye and now you couldn't get him out of your head. he claimed to be obsessed with you these days because you were funny and made him laugh like no one else, because you were natural and didn't feel like you were putting up a fake persona in his presence, because he could always talk about anything that weighed on his mind without any judgement. you told him you'd heard things about him and he asked you if you believed them.

"if there was any truth to it, you wouldn't be a completely different person from what i've heard."

but he was. and he felt so fucking guilty about hiding it from you. when you spotted a bruised lip and a cut on his cheekbone, you attended to him without questions. you believed him when he lied and told you that he had a little fall from his bike (he had a fight, actually) and he let you scold him for not being careful. when you worriedly scanned his body for other signs of injuries, he let your hands travel all over his body. and when he held your wrists to stop you because he couldn't take it anymore, he convinced himself that it really wasn't different with you, that he really only wanted to ruin you because he was so tempted by your naivety, that you would soon be one of the women he had played with. he kissed your wrist while repeating that mantra, watching your lips part in surprise.

that night, he tried to reason with himself. you were too good a person to lose by his foolish antics. you were a keeper, you were precious and if he made a foolish mistake, he would forever regret it.

that doesn't stop him from treading on dangerous lines. and he could blame you for initiating it, blame you for kissing him first and involving yourself with him when the phone in his pocket was still buzzing with texts he never responded to, with the number of people that either wanted to fuck him up or fuck him.

and you... you would blame yourself too. because how could you hold back? how could you not give in and simply kiss the boy who sat on the riverside beside you, talking with you as if you both had nowhere else to be? how could you not hold his handsome face and kiss his plump lips when he told you how much you meant to him and how he was afraid that he would make a mistake?

if he was afraid of making a mistake, then you would in his stead. all you wanted was to be with him, to not be held back by the rumours or the warnings of your friends, to listen to your heart for once, no matter how foolish that may be. so when he looked at you with those eyes, looking like a stray cat that just needed a little love, someone who would tend to him... all the hesitation left your body as you held his face and kissed his lips, the sound of the river and the wind soothing your nerves. he didn't kiss you back. you drew away- had you really made an irreversible mistake-

"you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

that voice. that voice that you only heard when he talked about himself- his warning voice.

"why don't you show me then? what am i getting into?"

and that was the final push for san- his vision almost blackened for a second as desire crept through every nerve in his body and he crashed his lips on yours, earning a surprised groan from you. soon, you were kissing him back and moulding your body to his, letting your arms snake around his neck while his hands traced every part of your body, determined to not leave a single place untouched. the way he kissed was all-consuming- rushed, desperate, passionate and needy. when you broke contact for air, he started littering kisses all over your face, trailing from your jaw to your neck-

"san- sannie. we have all the time in the world."

that prompted him to pause- and perhaps, you shouldn't have stopped him when his lips were attached to your neck because he simply switched his speed, gently kissing and sucking into the crevice of your neck, making you arch your back. he held your body flush to his, gripping your thigh and shifting you so that you were almost in his lap, all the while continuing with his administrations. you took that chance to let your hands creep up his neck, hold him and caress his hair- those soft hair you always wanted to touch. you kissed his temple while he continued to kiss your neck, only drawing away when he was satisfied, grinning at the sight of the bruising spot.

you, however, didn't feel like grinning back, not when you were too absorbed in the overwhelming feeling of your heightened senses. not when your stomach flipped uncontrollably. not when your hands, off their own accord, traced his toned chest, sliding down to his stomach to hold his waist and look at him.

"i want you."

san felt his heart sink- what had he done-

"i want you. all of you. not just your kisses and your body, but your heart, choi san. i want your heart."

did he think that he would ruin you? yes.

but did he, for a short second, perhaps a moment of enlightenment, think that you would ruin him?

absolutely. and he should have known better than to kiss you in answer.

he should have known better than to take you home that night.

he should have known better than to accept your invitation inside your house because no one was home.

he should have known better than to accept everything you offered him in the spur of the moment.

and he should have known better because once he got a taste of you... he couldn't stop.

#suggestive-- mdni!!#sorry im a bit late i was waiting for ✨inspo✨ to hit #choi san x reader #san x reader #san fluff #san angst #san smut #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez drabbles #ateez imagines #yumi.asks

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toruro · 5 months

Text

chasing that feeling

pairing: beomgyu x f reader

tags: smut (18+), toxic relationship hehe 😿, semi public sex, pet names (baby, angel)

w/c: 770+

all of your friends hate your trashy boyfriend beomgyu.

you can't really blame them though ... he kinda sucks. canceled on you last minute two weeks ago; soobin was the unfortunate soul who had to console you over the phone, watching you as your eyes watered up in your pretty pink dress, fat tears rolled down your blush painted cheeks.

beomgyu tried to make it up with you with flowers the next day, 'cept he forgot that your favorites are daisies and got you roses instead. you keep telling yourself that it's the thought that counts.

taehyun's always asking you why you keep goin' back ... you don't have the heart to tell him the real reason.

you don't have the goddamn dignity to admit that it's because after everything—all the tears, all the shut doors, all the "gyu, i'm done's"—you always manage to end up in the same position—

"oh fuck, angel," beomgyu grunts from behind you, pelvis slamming into the softness of your ass. "this cunt's s'tight—shit, angel you're suckin' me in," he murmurs, sinking his fat cock in so deep you gasp loudly, lurching over the bathroom sink.

you don't even wanna think about how you got here; you were standing in front of the pub for almost half an hour, waiting for beomgyu who promised he'd be there fifteen minutes earlier, and right when you made the decision to take the high road and head home in defeat, he was running down the street with sweat beading down his forehead.

maybe you shouted at him a little. cried a little. tried to walk away. told him to go home aline. told him you don't deserve this.

beomgyu thought different, of course, and a hand on your wrist soon turned into a tug and suddenly you find yourself pressed against the counter in the tiny bathroom of the pub, skirt pushed over your ass and panties shoved to the side.

"love this pussy so fuckin' much," he groans, pulling his hips back so his cock slips out halfway before sloppily shoving it back in. one of his hands holds a steady grip on your hip, the other trailing up your back and finding purchase on your neck, just below jaw so that his index and middle fingers can hook upwards and into your mouth.

unconsciously, your lips wrap around them, tongue swiping over the pads of his fingers as you try not to lose yourself in the feeling of all the pretty veins and curves of his cock pressing up against your hot, tight walls.

"beo-beomgyu we can't—oh," you moan quietly, closing your lips around the rough pads of his fingers once more in hopes to keep your noise level down when he jams his cock further inside of you, grinding into you so that his balls rub against your clit. "can't be loud," you manage to gasp out when he gives you a second of peace, stilling inside of you once he's bottomed out.

"'nd why's that baby?" beomgyu mutters, fingers around your hips digging in further when he gifts you another powerful thrust. "seems like we're both havin' fun ... aren't we?" his voice is low and raspy, and you're trying—you're trying so fucking hard not to get lost but it only takes you a few seconds to give in and relent.

beomgyu's ramming into you now; fingers slipped out of your mouth a few moments ago so he could situate both hands on your waist and pull your warm, dripping back into him so the tip of his dick kisses your cervix with every messy thrust.

there's a mix of both your arousal every where now, but as your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head and beomgyu begins moaning your name in small huffs—telling you that you're the "best fuckin' angel alive ..,,, prettiest thing in the world when you're being fucked with his cock ...,," that he "can't get enough of you" ....

you don't even know why you bother trying to fight it anymore. no matter how many tears, no matter how many long nights of arguments where you tell yourself it'll be the last, no matter how many hours you waste waiting for him ... you'll always chase the feeling of his hot breath fanning down on your neck when he finally leans over, murmuring 'bout how he's "gonna cum baby, cum w'me please ..."

and of course you do, because beomgyu might be a trashy boyfriend, but he's your boyfriend, and you have no plans on letting him go.

#beomgyu smut #beomgyu x reader #beomgyu imagines #choi beomgyu x reader #choi beomgyu smut #txt x reader #txt smut #💌 drabbles

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sarah-yyy · 17 days

Note

what is war of faith about? is it worth a watch apart from just wang yibo(being gay?)? and where should i watch it?

you were all expecting me to do this so okay let's see how many others i can drag down this shenlai (i think this is the ship name we've settled on?? i have seen many 沈来之笔 tags on ao3 so i'm assuming that's what the chinese fandom has settled on) hole.

what: republican era communist spy drama (finance bros edition) // completed // 38 eps, roughly 40 mins each where: iqiyi (standard disclaimer that i don’t watch with subs so i don’t speak to the quality of eng subs) why: *chanting* yibo yibo yibo yibo yib- wang yang?? xiansheng???? i'll preface by saying i don't watch many republican era shows - it's really just not my thing, like even zhu yilong couldn't make me watch one and that's saying a lot, but i did finish and quite enjoy this one!! extremely strong cast on this show, and the story moved fast enough and had enough action in it that it kept my attention.

meet my boy wei ruolai:

ruolai is from a v humble family, worked hard to put himself through night school but is having trouble stepping foot into the finance world because he has no money, no connections, no diploma (the school is holding off on issuing him one because he's from a communist-stronghold province 😪). he's working several jobs to make ends meet in shanghai when he decides to interview for a job at the central bank.

he aces his entrance test! ofc he does! ruolai is a bit of a whiz with numbers, and is very very very determined to get the job - the place could be on goddamn fire for all he cares, he'll finish his goddamn test and get this goddamn job even if it kills him.

his performance gains him the attention of shen tunan:

xiansheng!! 😍💖💕

chief of the central bank, The Guy™ of the finance and banking industry in shanghai. extremely attractive in a suit. 100% dilf certified.

xiansheng takes a shine on ruolai, but ends up not being able to hire ruolai despite his excellence because, again, ruolai is from a communist-stronghold province, and they don't want to take any chances with him possibly having communist ties.

does that set ruolai back?? no. my boy sneaks into a party that shen tunan is holding at his mansion, and convinces shen tunan to hire him by essentially picking apart shen tunan's ~secret strategies~ that he's uncovered just by following the finance news and making smart deductions 🥺💚

shen tunan caves and personally hires ruolai as his PA, and begins mentoring him and teaching him the ways of the banking industry.

the show is mostly about ruolai's growth in the central bank and the shift of his political beliefs, centred around the kmt and communist party's conflict in that era. the premise of the show is fairly simple - most republican era dramas move in the same direction. this one was well-written, had a solid cast, and beautifully shot.

the development of stn and wrl's relationship in this show was good! it's v shippable, if that's something that is important to you. ngl, i did stay through till the end because these two were so interesting.

we have proud teacher shen tunan who is so so proud of his boy and takes ruolai suit-shopping and tells him how special he is :

starry-eyed disciple wei ruolai who would literally do anything for shen tunan:

he really does mean it when he says that. he gets tortured and thrown in goddamn jail for shen tunan, and he just bears it all and doesn't let himself react in any manner that could harm shen tunan.

i started this strictly for yibo, and had no expectations that i would enjoy it, but guys...........wang yang is 🥵🔥 in this as shen tunan, and this ship just.......sails itself. what else was i supposed to do except go three hundred different levels of ahhhhhhhhh over them.

ANYWAY. strong rec. like at least 8.5/10. even if you're just in it for yibo (who is EXCELLENT in this, the whump scenes are incredible), or if you just want to ship shenlai, the payoff is strong in this.

#tv rec #war of faith #shenlai

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itsmealaiah · 3 months

Text

i keep losing my goddamn requests by not saving drafts 😐

Can't get enough

anyways, here's the request for this fic: facesitting w/ 2015 tom! yay 😏 😈

tags/ warnings: head (f receiving), begging, cursing, slight fingering, dacryphilia, slut-shaming

MDNI ⚠️

pairing: 2015 tom x fem

Your POV:

My hands were tightening around the headboard every second, and I was nearly ready to black out. I had been trying to process the extreme pleasure, my body trembling as tom continued to slip his tongue in and out, my face contorting to match the sensation each time. He had been holding my thighs down for a good forty-five minutes, not letting me even think about moving from his rough grip. Marks from his large, veiny hands consumed my legs, all around my upper thighs to my core. I was almost positive I couldn't take anymore, and began to squirm from his hold on me.

He stopped sucking for a second, and pulled his head up to gaze into my eyes. "be a good little slut, and stay still" He growled, lips diving to my soft flesh once again. "Ngh, please..please stop" I sobbed, trying to tear his head away from me, but with no avail, he slapped my shaking hands away. I had already came twice, and I was very much overstimulated. His tongue was getting any and all juices he could, licking me dry, each lap sending vibrations through me, vibrations that seemed to echo throughout my whole body. My hands landed on his hair, trying to pull him back again, to make this stop.

"Tom" I cried, almost slamming down onto the headboard as my head felt severely woozy, not being able to fully take what he was giving me, my body ready to collapse at any given moment. It was truly too much, he was way more experienced than I was, most likely doing this with so many girls he was a pro. Well, the way he was making me feel didn't make me need to think, just from his actions I knew. I tried to make him stop, to pull back, to let my sore, aching body finally rest, by whimpering out a weak plea. "I.. I can't take it any- anymore" I whined, hoping my soft cries would be enough to convince him to quit.

"C'mon schatzi, just one more" He replied, murmuring the words into me, and tears continued streaming down my puffy cheeks, the heavy imbalance of pleasure and pain was not doing me any good. I felt my stomach tighten, meaning tom was going to get what he wanted. "Gonna co-come" I whined again, and released on his tongue, crying out his name in such a loud screech the neighbors were sure to hear and complain tomorrow, but that was another problem for another time. "Good girl" He pulled his hands off of me, laying my trembling frame down onto his heaving chest. I didn't stop crying yet, my body still in a state of ecstasy. "You did so well baby" He complimented, stroking my bare back to try and ease the tension.

I nuzzled my wet face into his neck, huffing lowly, while his hand traced small circles on the small of my upper back, soothing me. I sighed, moving my head up to kiss him gently, to tell him I was okay. I met his lips in a soft kiss, I cringed at the taste of myself on his tongue, but I didn't quite mind, as it faded quickly. I held my hands on either side of his head, capturing every angle of him, every sight of this wonderful man in front of me. "I love you" I whispered against his lips, even though we had said it many times before, this time felt different. "I love you too schon madchen" He smiled, caressing my head until I drifted off to sleep.

Even as I dreamt, I knew I would always love him. He was my whole, the one who made me fully complete.

#tom kaulitz imagines #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz #tokio hotel x you #tokio hotel x reader #tokio hotel #tom kaulitz smut #tom kaulitz x y/n #tom kaulitz x you #itsmealaiah

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strawberrysodaslut · 2 years

Note

STEVE GETTING JEALOUS BECAUSE EDDIE IS GETTING CLOSE TO YOU SO HE FUCKS YOU AND OVERSTIMULATES YOU AND AFTER YOURE LIKE “what was that for” AND HE TELLS YOU WND YOURE LIKE “you know eddie’s gay right?”

(just an fyi, in this eddie would be okay with you telling ppl obvi)

Bitter - Steve Harrington x Reader

❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

[ Steve Harrington Masterlist ]

[ Main Masterlist ]

❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

word count: 2.6k

summary: Steve has always been jealous of your relationship with Eddie, convinced he was in love with you. When you take Eddie to a party, his jealously goes wild, making sure Eddie knows exactly who is your boyfriend.

warnings: steve harington x fem!reader, gay!eddie munson x fem!reader (platonic), SMUTT, unprotected sex, fingering, choking, squirting, overstim, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, car sex

join taglist <- tags in reblog

❛ ━━━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

You and Eddie were good friends- you’d go as far as to call him your best friend. Regardless of what people said about him, you knew how sweet he was, how kind, how goddamn funny he was. It wasn’t exactly a new thing for people to think you two were dating- many people asked you if you were. But you always shut them down, telling them the two of you were, and will only be, friends.

One thing that made you certain that Eddie didn’t have feelings for you, was him coming out to you. It was very late at night, the two of you higher than the goddamn Sun when he admitted it to you. Obviously, you understood why he was so apprehensive about telling you, in a town like this- anyone gay would HAVE to assume everyone was homophobic to survive.

But you never really got the anger surrounding gay people, they’re just trying to love who they love. How would that be different from a man and a woman? You’d learnt early in life not to ask questions like that, but it was always in the back of your mind.

You could feel the tension in Eddie’s shoulders disappear when you pulled him into a hug, promising him that nothing had changed between the two of you, and swearing that you wouldn’t tell anyone.

To be honest, knowing the truth made the dating rumours all the more hilarious, you and Eddie in fits of laughter whenever someone asked.

The rumours quickly died down when you started dating Steve, you weren’t sure if he had ever heard the rumours, but if he had, he knew they weren’t true. You were his, not anyone else’s, certainly not Eddie’s.

But no matter how much it bothered Steve, he would rather die than say anything about being jealous of Eddie Munson.

Eddie on the other hand didn’t have that quality.

You swear to god, if you had a dollar for every time he said, “I know he’s your boyfriend and all, but he pisses me off.”, you’d be a damn millionaire.

Once again, the source of the jealousy wasn’t about you- it was about Dustin. Because for every word Dustin spoke about Eddie, he spoke ten about Steve. The kid looked up to Eddie, but Steve was his goddamn idol.

Because of this, Eddie and Steve never really spoke to each other- let alone hung out. But all that changed at Chrissy’s birthday party.

You had known Chrissy since you were a toddler, spending a lot of your time doing ‘gymnastics tricks’ on the playground, your parents screaming at you to be careful as your head had near-misses with the asphalt.

But as close as you and Chrissy were, you hated her friends. The girls on the cheer team were nice- to you at least. But some of the boy's basketball team were just… evil, they would spend all day bullying anyone who was even the slightest bit different, and then spends their weekends preaching about ‘loving thy neighbour’. You didn’t fit in with them at all.

So when you got the invite, you knew you needed backup. Steve was pretty easy to convince, being friends with a lot of the attendees, but Eddie, he was a tough one to crack.

“Why? Why in God’s name would I go to Chrissy’s party?” He said, crossing his arms over his chest in annoyance.

“Because…” You knew this was gonna be work, so you put on your award-winning doe eyes and started the guilt trip. “If you’re not there, you’ll be leaving me with jerks like Jason, and we swore not to do that to each other.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, knowing what you were doing, “You don’t have to go you know?” He says.

You shook your head at him, “Eds, I’ve been friends with her since we could walk, I have to go to her birthday party. Come on, it’ll be fun! You even said it yourself Chrissy was a nice girl, don’t you want to commemorate her birthday with your best friend?”

He pauses, knowing you’re right. “Fine.” He says, dragging out the ‘e’, “But you’re driving me, I don’t want those laundry basket freaks keying my van.”

You laugh, accepting his terms, intentionally leaving out the fact that you were also driving Steve.

After careful consideration, you decided to pick up Steve first, you told him you were also driving another person to the party, but you left out who. So when you turned into the trailer park, his eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you taking Max to the- oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He says as Eddie walks out of his trailer, recognising your car and walking towards it.

You thank every god there could be that you had tinted windows, ensuring Eddie didn’t see Steve until he was already in the car. Starting the car as soon as he gets in.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Eddie complains, slumping in his seat.

Steve shrugs, “Could say the same thing about you, Munson.”

Of course, this is the one thing they agreed on.

The rest of the car ride was torture, no one said a single word the entire time. You quickly regretted your entire decision, all hope of tonight being the night where Eddie and Steve finally got along disappearing the closer you got to the party.

When you finally get to the party, Eddie honestly looks excited to get out of the car, immediately walking into the house with his little lunchbox in hand. You couldn’t blame him for bringing it, if he isn’t gonna enjoy the party he may as well make some money from it right?

You and Steve were quick to follow, Steve almost immediately ditching you for his old jock friends. Leaving you and Eddie to fend for yourselves.

Despite the… awkward energy in the air, you and Eddie managed to have a pretty fun time, even convincing him to dance to some Madonna with you- in exchange for permission to rant about how pop music is the bane of our existence. But he couldn’t hide the smile on his face as you twirled him.

What you didn’t see was Steve’s glare from across the room. He wasn’t an idiot- of course, he heard the rumours about you and Eddie, and he trusted you, he really did. He just didn’t trust Eddie.

Nothing could convince him Eddie wasn’t in love with you, the way he looked at you would’ve been enough, but it's also the fact he’s known you for YEARS. Anyone who knew you for that long had to be in love with you, Steve was within a few months. He couldn’t keep watching this, you were so oblivious. How could you not tell?

Steve didn’t know Eddie well, but he knew one thing for sure.

Eddie needs to learn his fucking place.

You had left Eddie to continue his “business transactions” when Steve came up to you, arms wrapping around your front as he hooked his chin onto your shoulder.

“Hey” You mutter, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “‘You having fun?”

He nods, angling his head to pepper small kisses on your neck. You giggle, moving your body to capture his lips in a kiss. His hands glide up to your waist while yours hook into his hair.

“Wanna find somewhere private?” He mutters into your lips.

You nod, “Definitely, but all of the- private rooms are… taken.” You say, remembering watching different members of the cheer squad walk upstairs with jocks.

Steve pulls back from the kiss, his eyebrows furrowed, “how are they all taken?” he said. He knew how much the basketball team got around, but Jesus Christ. “Guess we gotta go for a drive…”

Steve practically drags you to your car, not that you weren’t following. The place you parked was quite… hidden, so there was no real fear of being caught. The two of you piled into the seat, Steve immediately pulling you into his lap.

He captures your lips into a kiss, “I’m gonna be rough, yeah? Is that okay?” he says in between kisses. You nod, gasping as he slips his hand up your shirt, groping your breast. He shakes his head, “Words, I need words.”

You whine, rolling your hips down onto his lap, already needy, “Please touch me, Steve,” You beg.

That’s all it takes for Steve to push his fingers under your skirt, moving your panties to the side as he slides his fingers through your slick. “Shit,” He mutters, “Always so fuckin’ wet for me.”

And with that, he pushes two fingers into you, curling them against your spot. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, begging him to touch you more as his thumb rubs circles on your clit.

He picks a steady pace with his fingers, nearly completely slipping them out of you before thrusting them back in. You let out a near-pornographic moan, causing Steve to move his free hand from your breast to your throat, cutting off your moan as he applies pressure. The buzz from the oxygen deprivation only adds to the pleasure Steve is giving you.

“Shut the fuck up. We don’t want anyone finding us.” He says, whispering soft ‘shhs’ as he refuses to relent the torturous pace on your clit as he pounds his fingers into you.

Steve was lying however, he wouldn’t mind Eddie finding out how good HE was making you feel, reminding him that he would never be able to do the same. But Steve will have to just settle for him seeing the aftermath.

Steve can tell your close, your walls clamping around his fingers, he prods a third finger at your entrance before thrusting it into you, the stretch sending you over the edge.

When the coil snaps, you swear the world ends for a moment, only pleasure remaining. Your hips stuttering as they roll against his hand.

As you come down from your high you expect his hands to slow, getting ready to slip out of you. But they don't, in fact, Steve seems to have picked up the pace, watching you with an eager eye as oversensitivity bites at you.

“Steve, please” You moan, unsure if you're begging for him to stop or keep going.

He presses kisses down your throat, “One more for me, come on, you can do one more.” He asks, voice slightly muttered by your skin.

You moan, nodding against him as the overstimulation fades to pleasure. You grind your hips down, riding his fingers as he continues to flick at your clit.

It doesn’t take long for you to cum again, your hands tugging at his long locks, face buried into his neck as you writhe against him.

“Good girl,” He groans, fingers still guiding you through your orgasm, slowing to a stop when you start to pull away. You’re already pulling at his belt buckle when he pulls his fingers out of you. He lifts his hips to help you tug his jeans and boxers down his thighs, his hard cock springing out and hitting his stomach.

You lift your hips, lining up his cock. Just as you’re about to slowly slide down, Steve thrusts up, tugging you down as he bottoms out. You moan out, gripping his shoulders as he immediately thrusts up into you.

Normally when you were fucking like this, Steve was more than happy to let you ride, enjoying watching you in control, but now… you don’t know what’s gotten into him.

But you weren’t about to complain.

You let him fuck into you, using his hands on your hips to grind you onto him. He hits deep in you, and your eyes roll back into your head. “Fuck, Steve.” You say, cradling your hands in his hair- just looking for something to hold on to.

Steve moves one of his hands from your hips to your clit, rubbing harsh circles on the swollen nub, barrelling you to your orgasm. “Holy-shit, Steve, close.” You stutter out in between moans.

He takes that as a sign to fuck harder into you, nearly fully exiting you before harshly thrusting back into you, going as deep and as quick as he can. Finding a spot on your neck and biting down to suck a bruise- just to keep himself quiet.

The warmth in your stomach grows stronger, until a wave crashes over you, your body going completely lax, a massive amount of wet presenting itself as you squirt around him. Steve pulls off your neck, moaning out as your walls clamp around him, spurting his cum into you as he rocks you through your respective orgasms.

It’s not until he stops moving that you see the mess you’ve made. His jeans are completely soaked. The car seats are wet, but thankfully nothing a good clean won't fix.

Steve holds you against himself, watching carefully as you take in the mess, still mewling from the orgasm. “That was so hot,” He says, tilting your head to his face, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Your jeans…” You mutter, brushing your hands through his hair.

He chuckles, “I brought a spare change of clothes since we said I’m staying over”

You sigh, body relaxing knowing he wouldn’t have to go back in with soaked jeans. He slides out of you, laying you down on the backseat while he grabs his overnight bag, as well as some tissues from the glovebox.

He carefully cleans you up, apologising every time he bumps your sensitive clit, before changing into new jeans, they were a different colour than the ones he was wearing before, so people were gonna figure out what had happened, but you didn't care.

You make eye contact with Eddie as you walk back into the party, you gesture your head to the drinks and then at him, asking if he wants one. He nods, and you walk towards the drinks table, ready to grab you, Eddie and Steve a drink.

Steve sits next to Eddie, he’s sitting in a secluded spot, so Steve knows he’s been dealing. He watches as you slightly limp towards the drinks. Eddie looks between you and Steve, then notices the change in jeans. A knowing smirk forms on his face.

“Jesus dude, you couldn’t wait ‘til you got home?” Eddie says, laughing as you stumble back with the drinks. “She can’t even walk properly, holy shit.”

Steve rolls his eyes, finally ready to put an end to this. “Look man, I know you have a thing for her or whatever, but you’ve gotta back off. She doesn’t like you back” He says, turning to Eddie, “Understood?”

Eddie’s brows are furrowed, confusion written all over his face, “Yeah,” he says, chuckling before turning to Steve, “You know I’m gay, right?”

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iruiji · 2 days

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SAGAU but Creator Reader has been tagging along with the Gourmet Supremos.

If you didn't know or have forgotten, Gourmet Supremos are one of those quest series that is randomized because some part of the questline can only be accessed with dailies (like Whispers in the Wind or Snezhnaya Does Not Believe in Tears or Garcia's Paean).

This questline spans from Inazuma up to Sumeru. I think there was 6-7 quests in total? I forgot. (it's 8).

(These are Julie, Parvaneh and Xudong in order.) There are more characters that made a cameo in here but we'll just limit it with these three.

Context dropped, onto the short HCs.

• Okay so, I didn't really read the whole story of this one so I'm just going to make some random HCs on the fly. I'm aiming for a goody-feel with this one so no heavy angst will be involved.

• Alright, so. Xudong is the leader of the Gourmet Supremos, and he only found you because when you land in Inazuma, you literally dropped into their camp and was about to steal a sausage from Julie's backpack (but there were so many ingredients there!!!)

• Xudong was fuming, lmao.

"THIEF!! SOMEONE, HELP!"

• Aight, geez, made you run a marathon there.

• The next time you've met, all three were together and they saw you roasting some lavender melon in some dilapidated tent you found while walking aimlessly. Hey, better than no shelter at all. For some unfathomable reason, your inventory only consists of food materials - with everything, and I mean everything, missing.

• God damn. It's like the heaven is telling you something. 🙄

• Anyways, yeah. So for some reason, the only access to the goddamn ingredients are locked, and you can't use it and you don't know when you would be able to use it, so you have to scrounge up whatever pitiful sources you can get.

• Sadly, it's mostly lavender melons.

• Like, you already made several dishes from this and it's really starting to grind on your gears, so you took a dive in one of the caverns and found some meat and was happily grilling it with the melons when the trio came out of nowhere.

"Thief!"

The hell. "I didn't get the sausage, though."

"But you still tried to!"

"I mean, I was dying of hunger, so.. you know."

Julie, bless her heart, gets in between you two. "It's fine, Xudong. They needed help, did they not?"

"But-"

This time, Parvaneh chimes in. "As they've told you, they didn't get anything, so let it go. And you." She points at you with calloused finger. "Who are you?"

That caught you off guard a little. Told them your name and, to Xudong's bewilderment, started chatting amicably with you. Some time later though, he softened a bit but still a little cautious. They traded cooking tips with you, and, to their utmost surprise, you exchanged many tips on cooking as well.

"How do you know all this?" Xudong asked as you finished explaining the difference between sauteing onion and garlic first.

"Oh. I'm uh, a professional chef back in our place. Been years though, so yeah." You replied as you took a bite of their chicken. "Holy shit, why is this so good?"

Julie and Parvaneh just smiled proudly.

• So like, you became a new addition to their team - but you actually specialize in desserts. Xudong has many a great views in cooking, as well as the two ladies, and together you journeyed the whole of Inazuma for rare ingredients and made some two or three journals that have been since published and loved by people. (The fangirling/fanboying is real when you saw Xiangling's message drooling about your own version of Tiramisu).

• One day, however, you lot came across a shrine - it doesn't look abandoned, oddly, but it looks really, really old. You asked them what's the deal with this one, and they explained about the Creator.

Oh.

You're in SAGAU?

Shit.

"People said they've come back, but we don't really know.."

Double shit.

• With that knowledge, you try and avoid the main cities as much as possible and only let the three buy on populated areas. Thank God they didn't really notice you suddenly covering half your face with a mask - which you only shrugged when asked.

"I like masks."

Fair enough, they suppose.

• ..oh fuck, is that Yae Miko?

"Ara, and who is this?"

Xudong, Julie and Parvaneh bows and you hastily followed.

"She is our new companion, Lady Miko."

She looks at you with an impish grin. "Oh?"

... "Yo."

Nice.

• Coming across the main characters from the game are very, VERY rare. You can actually count on one hand the characters you've met:

Yae Miko;

Thoma (he was going around asking for favors as usual and you bump into each other and only had quick apologies as interaction);

Kujou Sara (she was patrolling the area and asked about your mask - which you replied that it's part of your outfit. damn, her glare was fucking menacing!);

Kuki Shinobu (you were side to side buying groceries once), and lastly;

Kamisato Ayato (you actually didn't meet - you just saw him giving speech in a podium for some event you just came across).

• You figured, hey, maybe you're NOT the creator or whatever. And just tried to live normally after some time. The mask stayed though, because you just survived the pandemic back here and was cautious.

• About a year and six months with the team, Xudong suggested you come all to Sumeru to expand your knowledge. Holy shit, yes please!

• ..and then you met the Traveler on your way.

"Your Grace..?"

Triple shit.

😭 sorry for disappearing for about a year - i was too lazy finishing anything. And now, I added another idea not to finish on the list 💀 wrote this whole thing in like 30 minutes motivation really is a wonderful thing, huh?

#sagau brainrot #genshin impact #genshin impact sagau #genshin isekai #genshin headcanons #sagau idea #sagau x reader #sagau #genshin sagau

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becauseplot · 6 months

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Thinking about hg duo----qCellbit and qBad---and relationship imbalance, specifically during their time together in the Wars. (And I know relationship imbalance typically refers to romantic relationships, but it can definitely apply to platonic ones as well. Anyway this isn't the most ACCURATE term but I wasn't sure what else to call it. You'll see what I mean.)

Like, I keep imagining Cellbit, this 14ish- or 15ish-year-old kid dropped in the middle of a warzone with no idea if he's going to survive to see tomorrow. He's scrappy, and he's cutthroat because he needs to be to survive out here, but he's still just a kid. He knows he's not very strong, and he knows he's not very big or intimidating, and he doesn't know what he's doing. He's teaching himself (on the fly) how to hunt, how to hide, how to run, how to scavenge, and how to bandage wounds. In desperate moments, he does unspeakable things that shake him to his core. (Standing over a body, a knife in his hands, he's trembling, he hasn't eaten in eight days---)

And then he runs into Bad, who is everything that Cellbit is not: experienced, strong, intimidating, coordinated, methodical. Knowledgeable. Capable. He's been in the Wars much longer than Cellbit. He knows he's lucky that he happens to get on Bad's good side, and he is stupidly fortunate that Bad is letting him tag along.

Bad teaches him everything; Bad helps him refine his skills and shows him things he never would have been able to figure out on his own. Bad shows him how to walk as silent as the night. Bad shows him how to properly grip a knife. Bad shows him how to dress and re-dress wounds. Bad shows him where to hit someone to deal the most damage. Bad shows him the difference between poisonous and edible mushrooms. Bad shows him how to prepare cuts of a body. Bad shows him where to look for clean drinking water, then how to purify it. Bad shows him how to scrub the blood out of his clothes.

And not only that, but Bad is kind. Sure, it's difficult to wrangle an straight answer out of him sometimes, but he's always willing to tell a story. Also, he compliments Cellbit when he manages to do a takedown on his own, he praises Cellbit on his form in a fight. Bad smiles and laughs with him and messes around with him and ruffles his hair and calls him a "rapscallion" and a "muffinhead" and a whole assortment of dumb little nicknames.* Bad isn't a very cuddly guy, per se, but he's a steady presence whenever Cellbit has a nightmare, or in those rare moments after a hunt where he can't seem to stop shaking, or when the taste of blood in his mouth is suddenly just. too. thick.

*(Cellbit doesn't actually have a name at this point. He doesn't remember it. These nicknames are all he has.)

Cellbit looks up to Bad. He admires Bad, and he wants to do right by him. He wants Bad to be proud of him. He cares so, so much about Bad, and he knows he's incredibly goddamn lucky that Bad found him. Bad is, essentially, the only thing keeping him afloat in the Wars.

And Cellbit's memories only stretch back so far before his mind hits that thick black wall of Nothingness. As far as he is aware, there has been nothing but the Wars, and thus the time he's spent in this life is partitioned as Before Bad and After Bad.

To Cellbit, Bad is everything.

Bad, on the other hand? Well, it's not that he doesn't care about Cellbit. It's just...different. Because, no, this isn't Bad's first rodeo. He's walked through his fair share of conflicts, and he's had his fair share of travel companions. Cellbit is one of many---he's not the first, and he's definitely not going to be the last. Bad only helps the kid because he found him trying to carve up a body and come on, he clearly didn't know what he was doing, he was holding the knife all wrong!

And then he invites Cellbit to come with him because why not? Teaching Cellbit those skills he's lacking is a rewarding exercise. Bad recalls showing Cellbit how to throw knives, and the first time Cellbit managed to land the blade deep in the tree trunk, Cellbit looked back at him with this beaming grin---it was actually kind of cute! Plus, Bad didn't realize how much he missed having someone to talk to besides himself; he should really seek out travel companions more often.

Cellbit might be inexperienced and not exactly the strongest, but he's pretty smart, and he's very willing to do what's necessary to make it out here. Bad reckons that Cellbit might actually make it through winter before he dies. Probably of fever. Bad has lost a lot of companions to fever. Mortals get sick so, so easily and so, so quickly. It sucks, but oh well. That's just how it goes.

#qsmp cellbit #qsmp badboyhalo #hgduo #relationship study #dont mind me im just rambling #my writing #i might write more about this but ive got Things i need to be doing (im already procrastinating on a huge assignment PRAY FOR ME)#also might make edits later because i love to nitpick #Little Dagger AU

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whatsaninterestingplacethisis · 5 months

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Flower Boy

Imagine

Nico Hischier x Latina!Reader

Synop: y/n a bitter florist, notices the foreign man that always stops by her work once a week.

a/n: Shy Nico + reader who hates love bc she’s never been in love before?

cw: cussing

Being a florist didn’t really require much work, depending on the day you could be held in the back or on dreaded days in the front left to socialize with people.

There are many types of people who buy flowers in person: 1. Spouses who think of their significant other 2. Spouses who forgot a special date for the significant other 3. Birthdays or house warming gifts etc.

Depending on who came into the small shop, it set the mood for the small talk. Spouses who were stressing about a forgotten anniversary kept silent. Spouses who bought a bouquet of roses wouldn’t stop talking about their ‘honey bun’.

The silence was always preferred over the “my girlfriend this” or “my boyfriend that”. Nobody asked, just take the goddamn flowers to your ‘sweetie pie’.

Lord knew you weren’t getting any flowers from anyone else. Probably the reason why you were so bitter. Either way, the rare chance you were gifted flowers, those babies would die within a week.

Ironic, working at a flower shop only to neglect the ones at home. Not that you had any at the moment.

Anywho you knew every time a fine man that walked into that door was most likely taken. Including the brunette with a backwards cap on scanning the sun flowers. He was too handsome to be single you thought.

You were gawking at him until he started to walk up to the counter.

“Hi, I want a sunflower bouquet but I’m not sure what else to add. Could you help me out?” the brown eyed man asked with a friendly smile

“No problem” you replied with a customer service smile. You walked outside the counter and helped the guy with the arrangement.

“How does this look?” You turned around with the finished design.

“It looks amazing, I really appreciate the help. I don’t know much about flowers but these look great.”

“That’s why im here to help.” You said with a half ass smile as you hand him the bouquet.

“That will be $32” Flowers were expensive too.

“Thanks again, these are going to make my mom smile.” Well that was different, the bouquet were for his mother and not his girlfriend.

“I hope she will.” You said with a genuine smile this time, a green flag noted for the man who buys his mom flowers.

Next week you were in the back, finishing up on bulk orders the shop needed for the following week.

“Hey y/n could you stand in for me a bit I need to take this call, pretty please?” Your coworker Ash who was working the front disrupted your silent shift.

“Sure” the call was probably about their cat, it had some medical issues lately as Ash had rambled on about.

Luckily no one was in the front when you took over and the call wouldn’t have taken too long. But you spoke too soon as the bell rang on the entrance door.

Lo and behold it was the green flag brunette. Instead of looking around he walked straight up to you at the counter.

“Hi” he said

“Hi”

“Did your mom like the bouquet?” You asked

“Huh?” He was almost out of breath when he came in.

“Last week, you were here and bought a sunflower bouquet that I beautifully made.”

“Oh yeah, sorry. Yeah she loved it, thanks.” He quickly said, it looked like he was about to break a sweat

“So what can I help you with today?” You offered your services like usual

“Um well I want to- actually I’m in a rush and- can I just buy a single rose? Is that weird?” He stumbled over his words for the most simplest order

“A single rose it is, not weird at all. It won’t take long.” You turned to grab a single plastic sleeve and walked over to grab the best rose out of the bunch and packed it up.

“Your total is $3.” You handed the rose to Mr. Brunette and softly took his three one dollar bills.

“Thanks…y/n.” He said your name to your surprise

“Uh no problem.” You forget you’re wearing a name tag considering no customer calls you by your name.

He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but just turned and took big strides out the door.

Next week was organizing the newly ordered flowers on the ground floor. Luckily they came in time before the downpour started. If it was raining it meant less customers were going to show, which of course you didn’t mind.

You were organizing the tulips when the hanging door bell chimed, making you turn to look at the drenched brunette who has always made an appearance every week.

“Hi” you said across the shop in confusion as to why he would walk in the rain to buy overpriced flowers.

“Hi” he tried to air dry his hair with his hands as if he were a golden retriever

“Do you need a towel or something?” You asked as you moved to the back to get one.

“That would be great.” He stood there awkwardly

You handed him a small towel, “Thanks”

“So did the rain inspire you to buy flowers today or?” You joke about his wet shirt and damp hair state

Fortunately, he laughs along. “No, it just surprised me as I walked here.”

“Well then, what can I get you today… I hope it’s not weird to ask for your name considering this is third time I’ve seen you here.”

“Not weird at all, it’s Nico. Honestly any small flower arrangement is fine today, whatever you think looks good.”

“Alright, Nico, I’ll see what I got. Is this for your mom again?” You never initiated small talk with customers but Nico was becoming a regular and you wanted to know if he was single or not.

“No” he laughed “it’s for a girl.” Thunder hit outside as the sound of your dreams being crushed.

“Oh that’s sweet.” Small talk was over now on your behalf. But the arrangement was going to be pretty either way.

By the time you exchanged the money for the flowers it was still raining outside, too hard for anyone to be walking without an umbrella.

“The rain hasn’t slowed down at all, I think there’s an umbrella I can lend you. It’s in the back just give me a sec.”

“It’s okay really, I don’t mind some rain.”

“It’s no problem.” You went in the back to find said umbrella

“I found it, it’s a bit dusty though-“ but Nico was gone and you were left alone with the flowers.

“So did you ask her- Dude why are drenched? You’re making a mess on my floor.” Jack said to Nico who was out of breath.

“It’s raining.”

“Obviously. So did you ask her for her number?” Jack asks his friend who had been pining over the flower girl, as Jack puts its, for weeks now.

“No. I chickened out last minute.”

“More like again. I mean c’mon I still have the rose from last time. What excuse did you say this time?”

“I said these were for a girl.” Nico motioned the fragile and ruined bouquet from the rain and running.

“Oh my god you’re an idiot. She totally thinks you have a girlfriend now.”

“Well I panicked! If I show up one more time she’ll think I’m a weirdo.”

“Maybe go again later today, when the rain is gone, and ask her out officially.”

“What if she thinks I’m a stalker or something?”

“She wouldn’t be that wrong to be honest.”

“Not helpful.”

“Neither is the rainwater on my wooden floors. Clean up before you go and see her.”

Nico leaving you without a goodbye was weird to say the least and rude. He literally vanished into thin air. Soon after he left the sky was clearing up and turning blue again.

An hour passed by and you were done restocking the flowers and ready to take a needed break. Since you were the only one there, you flipped the closed sign with the clock on it to read ‘will return at 2:20pm’ and locked the door. You decided to watch The Crown in the back room while eating your favorite snack. Although, half way into your break you hear fast and loud knocking.

“What the hell man, I swear some people cannot read.” You complained to yourself and went out to see Nico again but this time locked outside the shop.

You unlocked the glass door and opened it ajar for the guy, “hi” you say in a questioning tone.

“Did the flowers get ruined by the rain? Because I did have an umbrella for you, but you kind of just disappeared right after.” Nico was trying so hard to control his fast breathing, but you noticed. He just kept silent trying to hold in his breath.

“Are you okay? Did you run down here? Or is someone chasing you?” You peered outside the door to see anyone that could be possibly chasing him but no one was out of sorts.

“Can I come in?” he finally says something

You side eyed the closed sign and looked at your watch, there was a little over five minutes left of your break, but whatever right?

“Anything for my favorite customer” you stepped aside to let him in before closing the door again.

“So be honest with me, the flowers are ruined right?” You asked knowing you were 90% right.

“Yeah, sorry, they are.”

“To be expected. Well I can make you the same ones, not free though, I did advise you to take the umbrella.” You didn’t want to sound mean but you were right and Nico knew that.

“Actually, can I get one that you would like, if someone gave you flowers?” This was not a shocking request considering other boyfriends that come in ask the same thing because they don’t know what their girlfriends like.

“No problem.” You always had the same bouquet in mind for this request, very simple and easy to care of, but a sight to see nonetheless.

“Here you go, don’t ruin these ones now.” You joke, hoping it would land and it did with Nico’s smile as proof.

“Hopefully your girlfriend likes them.” You say flatly before turning to clean up the scraps of the arrangement.

“Actually” he whisper yells before you turn around completely. He passes the flowers back to you, with a note of his own with his number on it.

You looked down at the flowers and catch the note, “I thought you had a girlfriend” you asked looking at the man across from you.

“No, I don’t I gave the rose to my friend, he still has it.”

“Oh…?” You say in confusion on what he was trying to say.

“Oh we’re not- he’s just a friend- I’m- this is my way of asking you out and I’m doing a horrible job, sorry”

“So the first sunflower bouquet wasn’t for your mom?” You were totally confused.

“No those were actually for my mom. The rose, wasn’t for anyone, I just wanted to see you again. Sorry if that’s weird.”

“And today’s flowers?”

“Another excuse to see you again.”

You started to smile and almost laughed at his stumbling of words “I see”

“I was supposed to ask you out earlier today but I backed out and now I’m here again.” He says with a nervous smile patiently waiting for your response.

“Thanks Nico, you’ll get your answer when I get back home.” You slyly say before placing the flowers in a vase of water.

“Okay, have a nice day.” He said with zero confidence as he walked out the shop thinking he completely screwed up.

You got home later and set the flowers on your counter, taking the hand written note with you to your couch.

Flower boy (nico)

Hey flower boy, I think I have your answer. Also I think it’s really sweet to give your friend flowers!

#nhl imagine #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #latina!reader #jells🪼imagines #homies deserve flowers too

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writefightandflightclub · 22 days

Text

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?”

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.”

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.”

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends.

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

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

Friends; not lovers.

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun.

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere.

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.”

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?”

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong.

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You.

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

There’s nothing here.

Nothing with you.

Nothing he could have with you. No way.

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.”

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

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

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

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

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

Even?

It could never get close to even.

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.”

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.”

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

“I stink.”

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?”

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.”

“Let’s lie down then, alright?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?”

“Do I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?”

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.”

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?”

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.”

Santiago dips his chin so he can reach your hairline. Settles a chaste kiss there, which lingers a touch too long - but which he can’t possibly cut any shorter, his eyes closing as his lips brush your skin. “Happy birthday,” he breathes, completing part one of your demand. With any luck, he thinks, you might fall straight to sleep like this - before he even has to serenade you.

He stills as your eyes flutter closed, listening out for the slowed pace of your breathing. That is, until you open one eye and whisper-hiss up at him. “Sing.”

A resigned amusement twitches his plush lips and he finally obliges you. He begins softly speak-singing, hoping his soporific and sandy tones will lull you towards sweet dreams, his broad palm still sweeping up and down your back.

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…”

A soft smile graces your features as you note his song choice. “Cobain? You’re such an angsty little gremlin, you know that?”

“I can stop at any time,” he threatens, teasingly.

“No. No, please.”

He clears his throat. Lets his voice grow a touch more full and resonant, despite it being scuffed by tiredness and smoke.

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.”

It is a little funny, at first. A little awkward; until suddenly, it isn’t . Until, suddenly, a weight settles in your brow. Until his voice begins to falter, cracking apart with emotion.

He hadn’t been able to say it. Clearly not even to acknowledge it.

He hadn’t been able to find the words to tell you what you mean to him. To explain the pit in him which had opened up when he’d almost lost you. Didn’t have the words to tell you you were the reason he’d prayed for the first time in ten years, pledging loyalty to a God he hadn’t believed in -hadn’t needed - until he was begging Him not to take you. He didn’t know how to describe the way it had felt for him to kneel by your bedside, his mother’s rosary beads clutched in his palm so tightly the cross has drawn blood - even as he’d openly cursed them for protecting him and not you, and had cursed you for the same.

He swallows the hard, tight knot which has gnarled in his throat. Wonders if maybe he can stop, because singing feels like purging himself of far too much of the pain and love he has buried, and fuck, it hurts on the way out.

He does consider stopping. That is, until your small, grief-laden voice sounds out as though it hurts you too; but that you need to hear what he is finally telling you. “Please. Don’t stop?”

It is a question, this time, not a demand; and yet, Santiago couldn’t dream of denying you.

And so, with a weight in his brow, he keeps on singing.

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky.

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

It is at this point his voice cracks wide open. It is at this point a single tear slips across the bridge of his nose as he sings it out loud. Something he’d known for a long time, in truth, but hadn’t quite found the words for:

“And I love her.”

The room seems eerily still as you each hold your breath. He doesn’t know where to go from here - but luckily, you always seem to know the way forward.

“You know,” you say softly, voice wet with emotion. “It’s a real shame. Because if you did believe in happy endings?”

“Yeah?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“You’d look pretty good as somebody’s endgame, butthead.”

An emotion Santiago can’t name twists through his middle, like he is being wrung out. Like his blood-soaked soul is finally being purged. It is no wonder then, that his words come out dripping red. Soaked in cynicism. With a disbelief that anything good -for him - is deserved. “Let’s get each other through the happy middle first,” he says, as hidden tears glitter on his long lashes. “Then maybe we’ll see about endings, huh?”

You don’t speak for a moment. Simply swallow in the near-dark. But, it is not lost on him that you hold him just a shade tighter. Then, when he hears a gentle intake of breath from you, he knows your request before you even utter it.

Please.

He resumes his singing. Slower, more off tempo. Begins to repeat the lines, over and over, softer and softer, until your breathing is deep and soporific. Until your weight on him is heavier. Heavier from sleep, and heavier from this new knowledge he has gained.

And, there it is. The end of the night, and yet Santiago cannot dream of sleeping. Not yet. Can only watch you, hold you, listen to your soft breathing, his heart full with a new understanding. And understanding he didn’t invite, but a welcome guest all the same.

He resolves it then. Resolves that, even if he doesn’t deserve a happy ending, he will do everything in his power to make sure you get yours…

Even if that means letting all hope of you -for him- go.

So, as he cradles you in his arms and stares unsleeping up at the ugly ceiling fan, Santiago contemplates it.

Contemplates in great detail the four days with you that irrevocably changed the course of his life.

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you.

The day he realised he was in love with you.

And the day he started running from that.

The first day had been two years ago, the second had been five months ago, the third had been today, and the fourth?

The fourth will be tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he will start running, because his feelings for you are far too deep and huge for him to handle.

He doesn’t even pause to wonder whether he’ll ever allow himself to stop. After all, once Santiago Garcia has a mission, he accepts nothing less than completion.

Maybe he’s no hero; but he always gets the job done.

#ride or die series #santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago garcia #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia

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beeoftheanxieties · 8 months

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🙋 I'm interested in your analysis of Nace's accent! Always interested in language.

Gosh, why do I promise to do things I know barely anything about...

Anyway, strap in kids, we are going to learn stuff about JO's dialects today.

First up, it's important to note that for how small Slovenia is and how few people speak the language, we have SO MANY dialects. I literally come out of a village of merely 2000 inhabitants, but our dialect is different from the neighbouring village's, which has 3500 inhabitants. In total, Slovene has 7 dialect groups and over 40 dialects in total.

So, in short about JO, before I disect Nace's accent: Kris and Bojan (and Martin) come from Ljubljana, which definitely has its own dialect. Often, Slovenes will call inhabitants of Ljubljana 'žabarji' (frog people) because Ljubljana itself is a marsh. And also because instead of using the nice Slovene 'Kaj?' to ask 'What?', a person from Ljubljana might say 'Kwa?' (don't know how legit this still is, again, please remember that I study English, NOT Slovene).

Jan and Jure come from Vrhnika and Logatec respectively. These two towns (at least in my eyes) belong to Notranjska, a very often ignored 'region' (Slovenia does not have official regions). Most people place us under Ljubljana, some place us with the karstic area, but I come from Notranjska, and goddamn, in my eyes they do as well! While there are many stereotypes about almost every Slovene region, also regarding speech, there really ain't that much about Notranjska. I also can't say that I've heard Jan and Jure talk enough to pinpoint them, or I'm just shit with dialects.

HOWEVER

In the recent episode of Welcome to the Backstage, Jure is trying to teach a British girl how to say Logatec. And he kinda pronounces it with an H (Lohatec), which I have definitely heard people from his area do. He also mentions Horjul, which is kinda close to Logatec and the girl is baffled at how to pronounce it. There are worse villages pronunciation-wise Logatec though, Grčarevec and Hotedršica, to name a few.

Okay, now I've let out my regional pride, let's finally get to Nace. The bassist of Joker Out comes from Gorenjska (the north-west of Slovenia) and yes, his accent is thick, but almost everyone from Gorenjska has a very noticeable accent, much like Štajerska. Now, I won't go too much into detail, but probably the best description of a Gorenjska accent is "it's like they have a golf ball stuck in their throat and are trying to get it out with the way they talk." And yeah, I deffo hear that with Nace.

I know I also mentioned 'ejga' in my tags and I can't not mention it again. It has no real meaning as it is a filler which can be placed both at the end and beginning of sentences. And it's highly typical for the Gorenjska region and I doubt my life will be complete until I hear Nace say it.

So as you can imagine, the Gorenjska dialect won't be winning any awards for sexiest Slovene dialect, but there are worse out there.

*slaps knee and takes a shot of schnaps of questionable origins*

Anon, hope this was fun, it definitely was fun for me, ejga.

#okay this was #long #if anyone can find a video of Nace saying ejga id be really happy #or idk make him say it and record it if you ever see him #i feel like i need it #joker out #nace jordan #jan peteh #bojan cvjetićanin #jure maček #kris guštin

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askew-d · 1 month

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Can I ask your top 10 fav fics ever (from any fandom, if you don't mind)?

Also, just curious, is there a story behind your name "askew-d "?

hello, there! sorry for the long wait, i forgot to check my notifs :( i will do better next time. thank you for this question! i feel like i’ve waited ages for someone to ask me exactly that, lol. i could talk about well-written fanfics forever!! can i give you a hug? because this is wonderful, really.

let’s go for it! my range of fanfiction that i enjoy vary, but one thing remains: i will adore your fic, no matter the fandom, if it’s written with passion and if it contains good, poetic introspection. i love poetry. for me, if there’s melancholic tropes of any kind i’m into it. immortal character and reincarnation? give me now. supernatural elements or slice of life with doomed narrative? i’ll ignore sleep to read it. angst with happy ending? my endgame, for sure.

however, i also adore silly, comedic, cute pieces of domestic life or otherwise. i had a hard time choosing from my bookmarks for this, and i also reviewed some of my favorites, it was fun. before we continue, here are some of the tags that i don’t dive into for whatever reason: porn without plot (it personally just doesn’t interest me at all), non-con, gore, a/b/o dynamics, soulmates au. sorry if you were hoping for it! i’ll try classify them into an order of what i like most.

1. jellyfish, by mystery twin, for the haikyuu!! fandom — i read this when i was finishing high school and coincidentally the story talks about finishing high school! i have a personal attachment that makes me reread it every year. it’s some sort of tradition at this point. not to mention i love kagehina dearly.

2. teen project to change the world, by animeloverhomura, for the mo dao zu shi fandom — respectfully speaking, i would find this author and give them a big hug. their writing is spetacular! if you've never seen this one and you're into mdzs, know it's a story where the characters get to see every event from the novel and donghua, even the dead characters. they watch wei wuxian journey, can you believe it? so goddamn entertaining. promptly waiting for the next update!

3. a hundred or so hellos, by iwillstillopenthewindow, for the haikyuu!! fandom — remember i said i love melancholic stories? well, this one broke me so hard, i had to mention how i hold it with tenderness (we love things that breaks us, dont we?). this fandom manages to write the cutest, most unhinged things sometimes. even it's an anime about sports. i always get amazed by it.

4. no certainty of doors between us, by betts, for the mo dao zu shi fandom — certainly the most silly little fanfic i've ever seen, it's hilariously sweet. i want everyone to read this masterpiece because, seriously, whoever did this deserves only the best. so, so, cute. it had to be in my top 10!

5. their kindred encounters, by fireflavoredwhiskey, for the untamed rpf fandom (bjyx) — you know those kinds of shows, books, any piece of media, that tears up apart? well, this one was it for me. it's a very famous one that deserves all praise, certainly well-written and enjoyable to the core, with doses of angst, romance and beauty overall.

6. as the clouds part and clear, we finally meet again, by 12262325, for the mo dao zu shi fandom — aaaaa, i was truly torn between putting this in the third or fourth place, but i ended up putting it here. come on, i love an age difference kind of story, especially for wangxian, and this one was perfectly done. sweet and funny. the development? the yearning?? outstanding!! i read this many times already, i'll never get tired.

7. pursuit, by emleewrites, for the haikyuu!! fandom — mystery, romance, lawsuits, poker games, adventure, slice of life, AMAZING depictions and so, so goddamn well-written? that's what you're looking for in any fanfiction. the author dedicated herself entirely for this story, and, like i said, i love stories that are written with passion, you can see it pouring through every paragraph. besides, highly entertaining. i'm not very into long fics, but once i started it off, i couldn't stop. that's how addicting it is.

8. linger by the door (i’ve always been yours), by piecrust, for the mo dao zu shi fandom — epistolary?? have i mentioned how i love it?? some of the phrases in this are gold, in my bookmarks you can check some of them (i ought to make a list of my favorite fic quotes, btw, i will sure do it). through each letter i could comprehend more of wei wuxian's feelings and his internal conflict. i love feeling this connected to a character.

9. all the world is ours to take, by khrys, for the fugou keiji fandom — i have more than one favorite fanfiction for this couple. you know these kinds of developing relationship where the transition from (maybe enemies too) friends to lovers happens so smoothly that it feels like they've been soulmates first and foremost at the end? i don't even know how to explain. i just love how, when they finally are together, it's like they've been together for years. and they just... made it official? i like it. i love my mr. kambe haru.

10. he won’t tell you that he loves you, by hellshandbasket, for the house m.d fandom — i found this to be the most fitting, perfect story for this specific couple. they deserved more stories like this, but we dont see it anymore. i would hightlight the feelings realization in this one, that is so fucking real? haha in any case, it's a fanfic that i enjoyed a great deal.

that's it, i guess! i wanted to add link click fanfics also, however i barely started reading fanfictions from its fandom, i'm drowning in it lately but it's just a start. perhaps very sooon!

oh, i’m gonna finish explaining about the name! in my native language, i’ve heard someone tell me before that ‘life’s a little askew, nothing’s ever perfect’, and that quote remained in every biography of any english website i ever went to. then in literature class someday i had to write about historical women and came across this one named anne askew (i wanted to write about the mostly barely-spoken women). it was the second time i saw this word. i didn’t think of it as a proper name before, but then i had to create a nickname for my ao3 profile and thought, humn, why not just ‘askew’? the quote has been engraved in my heart anyway, so i went for it. we’re all flawed and askew. so, yeah, it just… fit? the ‘d’ here on tumblr it’s only because my surname has a ‘de morais’ in it. i also liked that it resembled ‘alaska’, the john green character i was kinda of obsessed with back in my teenager grunge phase. i don’t like these kinds of books anymore, but i guess some details stay with you. do you think it’s weird? never thought of changing.

thanks for this outstanding ask, it certainly entertained me. and hope you have a nice sleep today, big hugs coming your way! 🤍

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lqtraintracks · 6 months

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you @maesterchill @danpuff-ao3 and @nv-md for the tag! <333

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

314

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,295,054

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Harry Potter is the big one. I've also written some Captive Prince, Locked Tomb, and one Call Me By Your Name fic

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Right Hand Red; Hung Like a Horntail; Slip Into My Lover's Hands; Weeds or Wildflowers (written with the very talented @unmistakablyoatmeal); and check this hand 'cause I'm marvelous

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try. I'm seriously behind. The truth is, I'll never get around to replying to them all. I will someday die with a thousand unanswered comments. But I do try. And I read each and every one and they touch my heart. I'm so very grateful for all the wonderful comments I've received and continue to receive!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oof. I hardly ever end things badly. But there was one wee ficlet; lemme go hunt it down. (*plays elevator music*) Ah, here it is: Not-Forever Is Still Forever. It's not MCD or anything. Draco just leaves for Argentina for two years. *shrug emoji* But I like to think I've gotten pretty good at baking some realistic angst into the middle of things, if not writing angty endings. I prefer it that way.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them except for Burning the Ground, which is an open ending. I'll be honest, I don't like the word fluff. I'm never trying to write fluff, which, to me, denotes a level of uncomplicated sweetness. Maybe others define it differently. But I don't think happy endings are necessarily fluffy. I want my happy endings to put tears in your eyes, to move you. I want to evoke different things with different sorts of happiness for different phases of life. RHR's ending is about a feeling of freedom mostly, of getting to face the next part of their lives without dread. Take You Home has a similar vibe but with them a bit older; they've experienced the painful and mundane disappointments you have to weather in this life that have nothing to do with fighting a dark wizard and everything to do with existential questions about who we are, how we go on, what do you do when it doesn't work out, when you've changed and you don't know who you are anymore. I loved ending it with all their friends, at a march for trans rights. Heart Like Neon has an ending that makes *me* the most happy. I modeled it after an episode of Grey's Anatomy where you find out at the end of the ep that two important characters got married. The whole ep, none of their friends know, then at the end they play 'Bones' by Josh Record, and you go back in time by a few weeks and you see it. When I wrote the end of HLN, I had that song playing in my head from the end of the party at the Weasley's, to jumping three months earlier, to Harry and Draco in Paris. That's a pretty goddamned happy ending. It makes me cry. <3 (Also the art that @bluebutter-art made for it makes me bawl happy tears!!!)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I was going to say hardly ever but then I *just* got some last week! LOL. Still, I'm very lucky that it's not even once in a blue moon. That stuff is so arbitrary too. I'm going to quote my good friend @elrhiarhodan: People... they're fuckin nuts. :D

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

LOL yes. A lot of different kinds? I want to try a little of everything as a writer.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

No. I mean, I probably have a couple times over the course of my literal decades in some fandom or other, but they're not worth noting.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yes.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, several, and into multiple languages. I think that's so cool!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Definitely! In HP I've written with sdk, @the-starryknight and @nv-md, plus I once did a wild round robin with a big group of people. I'm not good at round robins, I've realized. Too much of a control freak.

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Drarry, totally. But right up there is Harry/Teddy and Harry/Teddy/Draco. Then Ginny/Pansy, Charlie/Teddy, James Sirius/Albus Severus (with Teddy too sometimes). In CaPri, I love Damen/Laurent, but @linecrosser had totally made me ship when Damen lends Laurent out to Nikandros for a threesome and also Auguste/Laurent. I also hardcore ship my own original characters from my novel. <3

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I don't do WiPs really.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Oof, this is tough. Pacing? Interpersonal relationships? Smut, for sure. LOL. I think I do well writing things that are transgressive or maybe even filthy with a lot of tenderness and compassion and deep, deep love mixed in. And I think I'm getting really good at making people cry when I want them to. Readers, that is. :D

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Convoluted plots. Can't do them. I wish I could. I can't write a mystery to save my life. I'm also pretty bad at heavy angst. I also wish I could write something nonlinear, but my brain just doesn't work that way.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

It's interesting that this is a question because it's meaningful to me not because of fic but because of my novel. I have a Spanish-speaking character, fluent in English, but sometimes he says things in Spanish. I'm very VERY lucky that @capiturecs read my novel both as a sensitivity reader for Latinx/Latine/Latino aspects but also to correct my Spanish and make it realistic and conversational! I'll be forever grateful! I also now really REALLY want to learn Spanish! <3

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Sorry, I don't share this publicly.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Oh this is mean. This is cruel. I can't possibly answer this! RHR has got to be in there. Heart Like Neon. Blood and Fire. Phoenix in the Fire. Take You Home. Wonderful Electric (cover me in you). A Pain of Our Choosing. My Name in Your Mouth. Bloom. collarbones like a bow, skin an arrow to the heart. I'll stop there!

Okay, this was fun! I'll tag @corvuscrowned @ruinsplume @floydig @sweet-s0rr0w @lettersbyelise @magpiefngrl @skeptiquewrites and Elr! <3

#20 questions for fic writers #tag game #my writing

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ebongawk · 3 months

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WIP Whenever

tysm @justhere4thevibez for the tag!!

Okay I have way too many WIPs to do snippets from them all but the two main ones I'm working on are:

the time travel AU:

“Eddie?” Whether it was the sound of his name or the weight of his gaze that grabbed her attention, Chrissy glanced up. Taken aback, blinking in surprise, Chrissy looked toward her boyfriend briefly before her eyes met his again. Catching him in the act of openly staring, and Eddie knew he was being a creep. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t breathe. She was even wearing her fucking cheer uniform. She’s gonna die soon. But she’s alive right now. And she was looking right at him. “Eddie, man, you good?” A sudden pat to his shoulder snapped the moment clean in half, yanking his attention away from her endlessly sad eyes. Eyes that no one else seemed to notice. Heaving in a great breath, Eddie felt his entire body go numb, looking away from Chrissy Cunningham. Putting her back in his periphery, where she’d lived for so many years before that fateful March day, as he caught Henderson’s concerned expression. Sinclair and Wheeler were also staring at him like he’d lost his marbles, unapologetically staring at the basketball captain’s girlfriend. “I-I––” he started, taking a half-step back. “You good?” Dustin asked again, hesitance coloring his tone in blue worry. “You look like you just saw a ghost.” I did. She’s gonna die. She’s gonna die. She’s gonna die, and it’s all my fucking fault.

AND the cuckolding AU:

“You haven’t even ordered yet.” Hesitating, Chrissy let out a slow, deep breath, eyes still tracing the granules of wood beneath her fingertips. They glanced up, washing over the mass of glass bottles lined up in neat little rows, silently picking apart the labels and trying to assuage which one would be safest. Least caloric. Trying to maintain appearances, or something. Trying to pretend her lie of a relationship hadn’t just imploded, and she needed to remain pleasant and small to keep Jason interested. As her mother told her, all through high school. Even if all she wanted was a Sex on the Beach. “Um. A vodka tonic, please?” The bartender scoffed. He scoffed. “Princess, listen,” he said, leaning so his own elbows were propped on the bar just inches from hers. “You really want a vodka tonic? I’ll make you the best goddamn vodka tonic you’ve ever had in your life. But if you’re gonna keep eye-fucking my peach schnapps like it’s a four course meal, I’m gonna end up charging you for it.” “Oh, my God.” She was laughing so hard her stomach had started to hurt. “It’s a dollar a shot, you dig?” “Listen, Mr. Barkeep––” “Eddie,” he interrupted to introduce himself. “I am not eye-fucking your peach schnapps,” she cried around the humor in her throat. God, it tasted so good. Almost as good as a Sex on the Beach. “I didn’t even think bartenders could talk like that! What happened to customer service?” “Alright, princess––” “Chrissy.” “Maybe the bartenders don’t talk like that at the royal castle in the sky that you obviously floated down from,” he grinned to show her he was still joking, “but this is my bar, and I can say eye-fucking all I want.”

(completely different vibes of stories lmao)

I'm tagging anyone who wants to participate!

#hellcheer #eddissy #eddie x chrissy #eddie munson #stranger things #chrissy x eddie #my writing #chrissy cunningham #hellcheer snippets #wip whenever

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