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unproductive-software-blog · 1 year ago

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every game I played in 2023 in chronological order:

1. Persons 5 Strikers: see post

2. Octopath Traveler: played for 1hr11mins after trading my copy of Pokémon Scarlet for it with a friend. The dialogue is too unrealistic, long-winded, and expository. 1/10

3. Alundra: great writing, but not enough to stand out from 2D Zelda. I also don't care for how sepiatone the visuals look. 7/10

4. Wide Ocean Big Jacket: nice game. Could be a blueprint for something really special in the future. 8/10

5. 20 Minutes 'Til Dawn: wow, a run-based game that's actually skill-based. Super addictive, looks awesome, doesn't waste your time, works great on phone. 7/10

6. Vampire Survivors: boring game with uncomfortable controls and bad graphics. Someone was bound to come up with this idea, so I think this game gets too much credit because it was almost immediately bested by its copycats. 5/10

7. Into the Breach: a puzzle game skinned as a tactics game. Too restrictive for my tastes. nothing to it. weirdly good ost. 2/10

8. Oneshot: see post

9. Pokémon Unbound: ROM hack that delivers on everything we want but don't get from Pokémon, but the heart is missing. 4/10

10. Mega Man X: fun game, great ending, worst guitar samples on SNES (sounds like a car commercial), and plays more like an NES game than Mega Man 6 on the NES. 4/10

11. The Dark Spire: one of the best soundtracks on DS, great aesthetic all around, interesting turn-based battle system with many different ways to execute a normal attack (fast, accurate, strong, etc.) and it leaves a lot up to you to discover through play. drops off after not to long when it becomes clear the story wasn't really going anywhere, and the dark aesthetic is just an aesthetic. 4/10

12. Pokémon Sapphire as Nuzlocked: pretty tough!

13. Final Fantasy III (NES): excellent pace that never requires grinding until the very end, which pits you against a dungeon the length of nearly a third of the game length to complete normally. i save-stated the hell out of it, and it still wasn't worth it. maybe play the pixel remaster and just up the speed or lower the difficulty or something at that part, because there are actually some very beautiful moments, and it's definitely, up until that point, the best RPG on the NES that I've played. 3/10

14. Elden Ring: this game makes me feel like the sane man in an insane world. everyone says it's the best game ever, BUT NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE HAVE BEATEN THE GAME. what a padded and directionless game. also does not provide anything of value in the story/themes department that hasn't already been beaten to death by the developer in their previous titles. Dark Souls 2 does everything this game tries to much much better. 2/10

15. The Legend of Zelda: I played this to see if open world fantasy action adventure games were ever even any good. this is honestly, basically just Elden Ring on the NES. 2/10

16. Sonic Advance: hits hard and fast. gotta save those animals. my dad says sonic runs fast and goes through unnecessary loops and stuff to build kids' confidence. 6/10

17. Zelda II: The Adventure of Link: ok so TOLZ isn't as good as I remembered, was its sequel any good? no! this is still an interesting game with absolutely garbage soulslike combat. 1/10

18. Dragon Warrior II: I keep trying to play through this and either dropping it for a different version or losing my save data. it's another early open-world game. i like the way the world is like one big puzzle for you to solve, but they SERIOUSLY don't provide enough hints, like hiding a necessary item on an unmarked tile of the overworld, surrounded by identical tiles. gets points for good npcs. Yuji Hori is clearly a man who gives a shit about stuff that matters. 3/10

19. Master Chu & the Drunkard Hu: another NES game for my commute. They give you infinite continues unless you lose to the final series of bosses, which they don't tell you. feels like a little life lesson to get used to it, then have it suddenly taken away. kind of a nonsense game otherwise. 1/10

20. Sonic Advance 2: even as a kid with the manual i didn't know how to do the aerial moves, and i didn't know about them this time until I finally looked it up because i kept dying on the parts where you need them. actually made it kind of far by being a little creative. the game really doesn't teach you about them. once you learn them though, oh man. i played through the whole game again because it's so much fun to use them. this is basically strictly better than the first sonic advance. AND IT HAS CREAM THE RABBIT, who is my favorite of the sonic crew. BRING BACK CREAM! 7/10

21. Omori: see video, 10/10

22. Pokémon Scarlet: see video and post, 4/10

23. Etrian Odyssey III HD: see post, EO3 has some kind of sloppy political metaphors dealing with racism and colonialism, but as someone who knows the other games in the series, which are more straightforward, I do think their head was in the right place here. excellent class system and world. the two benefit eachother a LOT. the rpg classes actually reflect class in a really unique and interesting way (examples: sovereign, farmer, knight, privateer, academic, indigenous person [these are not all the exact names used in-game]). I sat down irl and did lots of math on paper trying to come up with a fun yet powerful party. so addictive and enthralling. a massive adventure that I immediately started on NG+ to see the secret ending. 7/10

24. Pokémon White 2: tbh, still a game that didn't really need to exist. I think plasma in this game is a metaphor for old fans still clinging to the Pokémon series' past. Colress goes on Smogon. IRIS is the hero because she's just a kid who loves pokemon. 5/10

25. Sin and Punishment: crazy ambitious for its time. its influence can be felt today in games like Final Fantasy 7 Remake, which flow seemlessly between action and cutscene. what relentless pace. kind of awkward controls and an outright outdated continue system. would be strictly outclassed by Star Successor were it not for the love story and cutscenes in general, which have a really cool evangelion kind of feel to them. 7/10

26. A Short Hike: recommended to everyone. so easy to pick up and enjoy. real nice ending. 8/10

27. Drx Mario 64: actually very underrated: has a cute fun little story mode with really unique pop-up book presentation. 7/10

28. Puyo Puyo Tetris 2: excellent writing that utterly kicks Drx Mario's ass. WOW. kept playing all the way through the horrible ending just to see the story. this game was a portal into a whole world of compile that i never knew about before, and man, this is like their smash bros. there is so much crazy lore going on in this game, and they are so flippant about ALL OF IT, it's hilarious and cool. Satan is a character in this game. HE JOINS YOUR PARTY. CW, there is a chapter in which you play as one member of the party as they sexually harass another member of the party!! So yeah, I don't love the big themes in this game, but it's just so surprising and very modern. also gets way too hard towards the end. 5/10

29. Celeste: stressful game with stupid frustrating characters. I related more to Badeline than Madeline. seriously Madeline would be so dead were it not for infinite lives. also the way characters squish when they move is nauseating. Absolutely loved the ending when you make peace with your darkside and can practically fly around the game. I wish the whole game played that way instead. 5/10

30. Etrian Odyssey II HD: EO2 is honestly just not that great. it's way too basic. it's strictly outclassed by EO2 Untold, which is fun for the sheer amount of customization options, and the cozy vibes. 4/10

31. Pokémon Leafgreen: this game introduced me to the concept of a remake. as a remake it's pretty good. it plays it very safe, but adds a whole new area to the postgame which is the best content in the game by far. they really did improve after gen 1, and it shows, especially in the writing department. I experimented with a new nuzlocke technique in which I don't count deaths as a result of crossing the street and not looking at the game, allow myself to fight bosses underleveled without counting it as a game over if i lose, and sacrifice a new pokemon of the same family to revive an older one. it cut down on grinding significantly, while still pushing me to stragize and try new monsters. 4/10

32. Final Fantasy VII REMAKE: the most AAA game ever. so glad a developer made a AAA game that focuses on quality over quantity. it made me feel the way i always hope a AAA game will, like I'm actually happy people worked so hard to create this human achievement. even if the game is still padded, it's always got a great flow and almost never gets boring or aimless. also, the team clearly really loves FF7, and for every major scene they didn't quite nail, there is tons of interstitial dialogue, and new scenes that expand on the characters, world, story, and themes in a way that almost always feels right. I do think the ghosts are stupid. please do not add random ghosts into the background of cloud and aerith's first meeting, it kind of kills the vibe. 8/10

33. Fire Emblem (GBA): Wow. Talk about a game that has earned its reputation. The game is very high in the kind of last-minute surprise reinforcement/ critical hit bullshit that I hate about this series most, but the story is so incredibly wholesome and pairs excellently with the crazy violent animations. They clash so severely in a way that really emphasizes how ahead of their time the heroes are. They want to be perfect, peacemongering leaders in a world filled with hate and oppression on every level. Deals with race, class and sexism in a way later games have probably done better, but was very surprising and very E-rated in a way that was extremely direct, which is how I prefer games to tackle those themes (basically succeeding where EO3 fails, even if it is overly-simplistic in comparison). Might be my favorite of the series if not for the cheap way they ramp up difficulty. Also, the music is totally forgettable. The scene in which you recruit Nino pairs excellently with Yuzo Koshiro's The Poets I from Streets of Rage 3. 7/10

youtube

^ 0:11 - 0:52

#goty 2023

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300iqprower · 2 months ago

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@so-no-headpats

The Good:

Vivian is canonically trans in every language

There is a partner wheel so you dont have to pause constantly like its Ocarina of Time Boots syndrome

The shortcut pipes are now labeled and there are two mini shortcuts to the steeple and pirate cave.

The game looks prettier and there's extended/remastered music that FUCKS.

There is now an official reward for filling out the badge and tattle logs, although it's just a skin but its not like theres much to reward you with if you've thoroughly beaten the game like that. At least its acknowledged now.

You can interact with objects and characters while on yoshi, no need to mount and dismount every other second.

You can use Goombella's field ability even when she's not out but this lowkey sucks for reasons i'll get to later

The Bad: Quite literally everything else.

Firstly i wanna clear up there's a lot of false advertised "Quality of life". Fuck purism but literally all the "QoL" changes are just removing challenge from the game which Nintnedo loves to do with their remasters, looking at you Hyrule Warriors Definitive Edition.

More inventory slots: So you can stack even more life shrooms basically. Quality of Life would have been letting us send itmes we find in the field directly to storage, which you still cannot do.

Restarting failed boss battles: The game is very good about save points and specifically has back-to-back boss battles meant to test your preparation that now dont work like that.

No penalty for fleeing fights: Self explanatory, the game has a badge that lets you skip fights you're overleveled for already.

"New Content" there are literally 2 new fights in the post game. 2. That's it. And they both require grinding out a bunch of fights that were already in the base game,. FFS one of them literally requires you to do the pit of 100 trials TWICE. That's padding and a half.

"Balance changes" are just nonsense. Its very Nintendo brand where the game is objectively easier but it makes it much harder for you to play the game how YOU want and not how Nintendo intends, case in point the frame perfect nerfs to things like Power Bounce and Multibonk.

"we'll put in a concept art gallery showing all the idea we didnt have time to implement in the original 2004 release but no way are we gonna put in any effort and actually finish our vision and add that as new content to justify the remake"

NOW FOR THE STRAIGHT UP ACTUAL DOWNGRADES.

The framerate is halved

You cannot mash through dialogue anymore

the game explicitly has longer intro and ending battle animations

HAVE YOU NOTICED A TREND OF SHAMELESS PADDING YET???

Theres a useless yet detailed tutorial NPC who follows you around. How about using that time on new REAL content instead jackoffs?

The big one: Unfortunately the chuds were lowkey right about "censorship" and blah blah. Aside from Vivian, who deserves the world like the not-evil shadow queen she is, there are SO many changes to the dialogue and unlike Vivian they are not for the better. Pretty much all the edges have been sanded off, and I don't mean they removed offensive jokes I mean they've even done some truly petty shit that makes the story objectively worse. The straw that broke the camel's back for me was finding out they retconned the Shadow Queen's hidden lore to remove any possible nuance to her motivations. That's just one of a TON of examples of the dialogue having all its personality sucked out.

So have fun freely seeing all Goombella's sassy dialogue now that a good chunk of sass has been removed!

Also remember those improvements to Yoshi? Well his ability still sucks because now it has a windup rather than being an actually effective mobility tool because again this shit is padded as hell.

this is in no way a comprehensive list of either positive or negative changes but it should be enough to make clear I sure as shit know where I stand on whether or not this garbage is more worth it than just using the HD texture pack on dolphin.

Literally only a duo as incompetent as Nintendo + IntelligentSystems would manage to fuck up a rerelease of TTYD

#paper mario #video games #nintendo #fuck nintendo #ttyd

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whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years ago

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s.o.s, m | knj

pairing(s): namjoon x reader

summary: It's two in the morning and Kim Namjoon is at your doorstep, asking you to fuck. In a fuckbuddies way, because, as a wise man once said, "I may not know love, but I know snacks." Well, you do agree with this statement. Let's go with the flow!

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; smut (fem reader, slight D/s dynamics, blowjob, cowgirl); friends-with-benefits and feels through fucking (classic for me, haha, maybe I fell in love with him while writing it, oops)

happy birthday, Kim Namjoon <3 #happyRMday

now playing – pado by bibi

“Hey!”

“Shit, Namjoon, are you trying to break my door down at two in the morning or what? What’s with you? Why didn’t you just type in the lock?”

Kim Namjoon’s large frame and big brown eyes glanced at the silver-blue electronic number pad on your apartment door. “Oh. Right. I forgot you had that now.”

“I have it because you keep losing my key!”

He rubbed the back of his now blond head sheepishly. He must have dyed it recently because it had been dark brown last week. It was shorter than before, trimmed at the sides and longer at the top. Usually it was styled, but right now it was messy and puffy like he had been running across the city on those long legs of his or, more likely, windblown from riding his bicycle on his way here.

Namjoon didn’t drive. He said it was to maintain world peace.

“Do you wanna fuck?” he asked you breathlessly.

You looked down at your massive black sleep shirt that made you look like a lump of fabric, but, well, he picked today to pop the question and what were you gonna do? Say no?

You snapped back up, smacking your finger on your left wrist. “It’s two in the morning!”

“One forty-five, yeah,” Namjoon agreed, glancing at his brown leather-banded, white-faced watch. Simple and sleek. You noticed he had a few colorful string-woven bracelets on his wrists, likely handmade by someone in the various rural villages Namjoon liked to visit in his spare time. He dropped his arm and smiled brilliantly at you with those dimpled cheeks.

“I was thinking about you. You know, that habit you do when you run your hand through your hair and flick your wrist at the end, elegantly spreading your fingers out. Super sexy.”

You felt your ears heat. “Hahah… what?”

He scratched his head and stuck his hands in his loose black pants, draping his warm gray t-shirt over his wrists. Lowered his chin and flickered his eyes to you, awkward half-smile on those full lips.

Oh.

Shit.

“D… Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, backing up and shifting your eyes. “You always do that.”

“Do what?” Namjoon chirped, stepping inside and out of his brown sandals.

“Give me those puppy eyes even though you’re built like a fucking tank.”

“I snore like one too.”

“Yeah, I know.”

But none of those things really mattered because your arm was snaking up, your other hand slapping the door closed, looking down until you couldn’t look down anymore, lifting your head to playful dark brown orbs and a dimpled smile, already leaning down, his scent of warm cotton and faint florals washing over you, and then his lips touched yours and it was over.

You could say no, you could, but you never really wanted to.

Namjoon wasn’t being rude showing up so late. After all, you had already told him it was one of your fantasies, a late-night rendezvous, a bit of unexpected expected fun. Namjoon was willing to help, a game of ping-pong between casual, sometimes lovers, both too busy and scatterbrained at this point in life to commit to anything, but that worked for you and for him, or at least that’s what you told him and what he told you, his large hands now encircling your back, fingertips pressed into the thin fabric, sighing into your mouth, rhythm of those long fingers dancing up, up, sinking into your hair, tangling himself in it, nibbling at your lower lip.

“I just love touching your hair,” that deep, deep voice whispered to your lips, eyes still closed, smirking as the tip of your tongue darted out, playing with him as he spoke. “And I like messing it up a little.”

“A little? You like messing it up a lot.”

Namjoon curled his fingers inward and pulled back, your head following automatically, grinning with you as he opened his eyes, devious even with the dimples.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right.”

It wasn’t fun if it wasn’t with him.

You raised your hand and spread your fingers out, slowly running your nails up and then down his chest, smirking back at him, your tongue peeking out between your teeth.

Namjoon once said to you, let’s just go with the flow, ride the wave.

He sucked in a breath right now and pulled you close, hands letting go of your hair as he captured your lips again, deep, ravenous kisses that took your breath away, such wonderful lips that loved to travel across your body and wander that wonderland, his hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt, bunching it up as he stumbled back into your apartment, dragging you with him, you riding the wave of his passion, dragging his shirt up with yours, tossing them aside, body to body, exploring lips on that warm skin and muscular chest.

Namjoon also said things like, I may not know love, but I know snacks, so, yeah, he was always poetic like that. Full of wisdom and weirdness, arguably the best combination one could have when struggling through this nonsensical world.

You pushed him down on the bed, kissing all that tan skin, running your nails down his shoulders, walking down his defined biceps finger by finger, digging in a little harder, pairing it with kisses and drawing stars on his pecs with your saliva, making him smile and flash those dimples.

“Like that?” you teased, drawing back a little so he could watch the mastery of your tongue at work.

“You know me,” Namjoon chuckled, the sound radiating from his chest to your mouth, sending ripples through your spine. “I like cute things with a little pinch.”

“Like those tiny beach crabs?”

Now he actually laughed, that throaty, booming laugh of his, nodding with affirmation.

You sometimes wondered when the waves would stop and roll out, sometimes wondered if the tide of Kim Namjoon would go low and leave you behind, but maybe it was the moon or something, cosmic threads that sent him rushing back to your beach, bright and sparkling, always catching the light and looking good from every angle.

“Fuck, I always forget you’re huge.”

“I am not huge. You are being dramatic.”

“Dramatically sucking your dick.”

You knew how to take his breath away, how to make him gasp and his hand fly to your head, groaning as he pushed you down, your throat closing around his rapidly swelling length, tongue all over in the small window you had to wetly caress every contour and vein, bobbing your head in time with his gentle nudges, waiting for you and your jaw to adjust before thrusting a little harder, a little rougher, choppy waves and lost breath. His scent filled your nose, his toned hips in your hands, digging your nails into that muscle, inhaling and drowning in the feeling, pressing him between tongue and roof of your mouth, feeling the head hitting your throat, so you tightened your muscles.

Namjoon moaned your name, brown orbs turning darker from dilated pupils.

It filled your ears and soaked into your chest, your heart pumping faster, beating harder, drawn to the sound like a sailor to a siren.

You took him deeper, pulsing around the head, sticking your tongue out a little to lap at his balls collected in your hands.

“A-Ah, fuck… You’re always so, so good… always making me think of you…”

You watched his eyes close, his hand gripping your hair, not unkind, simply adding a little bit of force, but you were in control of the pace, riding the wave, filling your mouth with his hardness over and over, closing your own eyes, small tears collecting at the corners, unable to breathe, but you already knew you were diving and you practiced for this, holding your breath and bobbing your head fast and tight, your fingernails clawing at his sides just the way he liked, a little neediness, a little desperation, maybe an act or maybe not, honestly hard to tell with how often you had blown him, so maybe it was part of you now, just like how sometimes you would be alone and smell his scent even though Namjoon wasn’t there at all, maybe real but probably an olfactory memory, strange that it would happen just like that, a wave of warm cotton and faint florals that you drank in small trickles right now, your mouth occupied with his thick length, listening to the sloppy, wet sound of his cock being swallowed over and over again by your suffocating mouth, saliva sliding over his balls and onto your chin.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, fuck!”

Pushing you down, forcing you to deep dive, swallowing on instinct, clamping your lips around his jerking cock with every gulp of gushing cum, the strong salty taste lingering in the back of your tongue as your throat was stuffed with the swollen head. Namjoon shuddered deeply, resonating pleasure that drifted down his torso and through your fingertips. You lapped up anything you missed, sucking it off and Namjoon hissed at the sensitivity, tugging at your hair sharply.

You hummed and retreated a little, breathing again, licking the underside of the tip, wiggling your tongue over the slit and around head, opening your eyes to Namjoon’s panting smile.

“You want me to punish you or what?”

Nah, you wanted to ride the wave, but this particular wave was pretty fucking big.

“Oooh, fuck…!”

Namjoon raised his arms and grabbed your pillows, thrusting his hips up into your pussy after you had lowered halfway. The condom wrapper flew off the bed, probably to be found in some random place in your room tomorrow morning.

A later you problem.

Hands on his chest, sinking down, gasping for breath at the forced stretch at his girth, but it was nicer that way, wet and getting wetter, spreading your knees and arching your back, your hair falling down your shoulders, rolling your body to smack down onto his crotch, fuck, so hard and so full, starting a rough, choppy rhythm because Namjoon was deliberately not letting you set up a reasonable pace and kept thrusting up a little too fast, a little too hard, hot moans tumbling out of your mouth, feeling the crashing pleasure try to overtake you, drawing your knees back in to feel all of him, your palms sliding up, grasping those strong shoulders, lowering your head to speak to those sultry brown orbs reflecting your open mouth and half-lidded gaze.

“Namjoon… please, oh, f-fuck… if you’re gonna be like this, j-just fuck me…!”

He grinned, dimples on display.

“Anything for you.”

Mayday, mayday, you needed to be saved from that teasing smile and those words.

His hands fitted to your shaking hips and held you up easily, lifting his hips up at a deep, hard pace, emphasis on strength and less on speed, the muscles of his arms tense and locked to keep you above him as he slammed his hard cock into your pussy.

“Ah, yes, yes, right there, Namjoon, yes…”

You could go deeper so you did, slapping your hips down too and making Namjoon grin under you. Shit, something about those round cheeks and bright smile while he was railing you practically to heaven was doing something to you, washing out your senses and giving you no time to think, squeezing him inside you and feeling him twitch back, something so sexy about how he could do that even while fucking you, and you saw him suck in a breath, witnessing your effect on him, his hold becoming tighter, his dark lashes lowering, hooded eyes and locking with your gaze.

Drowning in the pleasure with you.

“Come on, you want it, right?” he panted under you, voice so deep it felt like you were underwater, your skin vibrating with the seductiveness of his tone and the depth of his sound mixing with the harsh slaps of skin to skin, wet and wonderful. “Show me you want it, give it to me.”

You couldn’t say no, already tightening your core and smacking down on him harder before he could even finish speaking, the ecstasy shooting up your spine and pouring all over your scalp and mind, letting go, pitched cries and blissful moans, Namjoon moaning with you, your name on his lips and filling up your bedroom, clutching his shoulders and staring into his eyes, breathing in warm cotton and faint florals, cast away into a wild paradise.

You clenched around him and gasped, a powerful jolt rocking through you, surprised at the sudden squelch but then you felt the overwhelming rush barreling through you, sweeping you into pulsing pleasure, one of your hands losing grip and grabbing onto the pillow beside Namjoon’s head, his heavy breath and your exhaled name blowing over on your prickling skin, realizing you were accidentally closer than usual because your hand slipped, his hands tightly wrapped around your waist and slamming you down onto his crotch, groaning and tipping his head back, his eyes closing, Adam’s apple prominent against his flexed neck.

If possible, suddenly you could breathe even less.

Your pussy throbbed around his twitching cock, his orgasm spurting into the condom and your juices soaking his skin with each flinch of the aftermath, wave after wave crashing into you, your arms trembling to hold yourself up so you could absorb it all – him, the dwindling pleasure, the moment when his eyes opened, your name drifting out of those lips in a lustful haze.

“I should… go back to mine, huh…” he wheezed, chuckling slightly. “Otherwise, I’m going to snore too loud and you’re not going to be able to sleep…”

You slid down, closer, closer, seeing the mole underneath his lower lip with his rueful smile. His fingers were drawing circles on your hips.

“I bought earplugs.”

You silenced his laugh with a kiss.

masterpost

#namjoon x reader #bts smut #namjoon smut #namjoon x you #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you

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nat-20s · 4 years ago

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me looking at my own post: you could fanfic out of this!

Anyway here’s how I think a typical “Martin’s Poetry Corner” would go!

~*~

Martin: And for my second thing, we’re going back to the poetry corner!

Jon: Again? Didn’t you have a poetry corner last week?

Martin: It’s been well over two months since the last poetry corner, my dear. And just for that comment I’m going to up the amount of the poetry corner. From now on this podcast is me reading poetry interjected with some guy talking nonsense.

Jon: You say that like the majority of our audience wouldn’t prefer that. Also, some guy? I’m wounded! Earlier you were calling me ‘beloved husband’ and ‘cherished one’ and now I’m ‘some guy’? What did I do to deserve that level of downgrade?

Martin: You decried the poetry corner!

Jon: I decried nothing! It was a purely non-judgmental comment on the frequency of it. If you want to do poem every week, I have nothing against that.

Martin: Hmm. I might test you on that. I know the whole point of this thing is to share things we think are lovely, and I do find all the poems I read lovely, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Jon: Oh? And what might your nefarious hidden agenda be?

Martin: I’m certain you’re the only one that would find it nefarious, but I can, must, shall, and will find a poem that affects you. Now, I’m sure the listeners at home would decry that goal. After all Mary Oliver, Maya Angelou, Wendy Cope, and Langston Hughes all did nothing. He didn’t even blink at “The Two-Headed Calf”, surely there can’t possibly-

Jon, laughing, which severely limits how much he’s able to sell his faux offense: I’ve been affected by poetry before!

Martin: Name one poem you had an actual strong reaction to.

Jon, smugly: It’s almost certainly not one you know. It’s called “Streets” and it’s by this really obscure author. God, what was his name? K was his middle initial I believe?

Martin, laughing: Piss off!

Jon: Well it’s true! I felt something at all of your poetry.

Martin: Liar! I very distinctly remember you calling it ‘almost affecting’! And you declared I was enamored with Keats, which doesn’t even make sense, we have wildly different composition styles.

Jon: You’re working from incomplete information. That tape was from my first read through. It was the reread where they got me.

Martin: Reread? I thought you hated rereading things?

Jon: Typically, yes. But. Ah. It was during the year you were gone.

Martin: Oh. Oh, love.

Jon: It’s been half a decade since then, Martin, I can assure you I’m fine. Though, I suppose reflecting on it, the affecting quality was more to do with who had written the poetry itself. Even now, you could write a grocery list for fun and I’d be hopelessly endeared by it.

Martin: Shut up.

Jon: I shall not! It’s been a hell of a road to get here, I think it’s more than acceptable to flaunt how much I like my husband, especially when he’s doing something he enjoys. In fact, I think it’d be more than appropriate if I did one of your poems for one of my wonderful things next week.

Martin: Absolutely not! Jon, there is a certain level of ‘embarrassing old men in love’ we’re allowed to be in the public sphere, and that would exceed it by, fuck, tenfold? Our quota would be wiped out for the year. For the next five years. No. Besides, my poems aren’t meant for anyone’s eyes and ears but my own, and occasionally you when you’re being nosy.

Jon, with audible shit eating grin: So you’re saying you wouldn’t like to hear your poetry in my voice?

Martin, having a gay panic despite being married to this man for years: I..uh..

Jon: Yes?

Martin: I would..I would like that very much. Privately. Er, please.

Jon: Well, since you asked so nicely. I suppose the poetry corner shall remain yours, for now.

Martin: Thank you for your grand generosity and understanding. Speaking of, should I get to the actual poem? I think I might have a winner with this one.

Jon: Please do.

Martin: So this week I’m bringing a poem written by an, as far as I can tell, unnamed ninth century Irish Monk-

Jon: -ninth century? Decided to abandon the contemporary route then?

Martin: Somewhat? The poem was written in the ninth century, but no one wants to hear me butcher the original, so I’m going to read the English translation by Seamus Heaney, which was done in 2006, so sort of contemporary? Depending how you look at it? Anyway, this is Pangur Bán:

Pangur Bán and I at work,

Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:

His whole instinct is to hunt,

Mine to free the meaning pent.

More than loud acclaim, I love

Books, silence, thought, my alcove.

Happy for me, Pangur Bán

Child-plays round some mouse’s den.

Truth to tell, just being here,

Housed alone, housed together,

Adds up to its own reward:

Concentration, stealthy art.

Next thing an unwary mouse

Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.

Next thing lines that held and held

Meaning back begin to yield.

All the while, his round bright eye

Fixes on the wall, while I

Focus my less piercing gaze

On the challenge of the page.

With his unsheathed, perfect nails

Pangur springs, exults and kills.

When the longed-for, difficult

Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes. To each his own.

No vying. No vexation.

Taking pleasure, taking pains,

Kindred spirits, veterans.

Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,

Pangur Bán has learned his trade.

Day and night, my own hard work

Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

Isn’t that just delightful? Jon what did you-holy shit!

Jon, voice tight: What?

Martin: You teared up! You’re affected! Fuckin’ gottem!! I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known that the way to Jonathan Sims’ soul was through a poem about a man feeling kinship with his cat. Incredible.

Jon, slightly sniffling: It’s a very nice poem! You read it because it’s a very nice poem!

Martin: Yes it is! That doesn’t discount the fact that I have read poems about love and hardships and finding joy in being alive and it’s the one about the cat that gets to you. Of course. I love you.

Jon: I love you too. Even if you are a bit too victorious over this. I think that will wrap it up for this week?

Martin: Think so! And as we say at the end of every episode, uh, the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but through cat poems from a thousand years ago.

#jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #wonderful! au #my fic #tma

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pandor-pandorkful · 1 year ago

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Ah man. This is simultaneously one of the most heartening responses to my Tezuka ranting, and also the most heartbreaking.

Good on ya for having a logical gut response of "some folks like to draw smut, so what?" But you deserve to know about Osamu Tezuka, who is rightfully called the God of manga--but he was so much more than just a prolific mangaka.

At the very least, read the profile on the official website:

In short: Osamu Tezuka was a pioneer of not only comics but also TV animation, influencing not only Japan but the Entire World. He was a humanitarian, a doctor, a scientist, an inventor, and creator of countless game-changing works. Over 700 hundred manga, as previously stated in one of my earlier posts.

I want that to sink in: Seven. HUNDRED.

Not short stories, either. That number is not padded out with one-pagers. We are talking about HUNDREDS of SERIES.

He created many of the distinct sub-genres of manga that persist to this day, perhaps most notably Shoujo/comics for girls, with Princess Knight in 1953. A series about a "princess by the name of Sapphire who has both a boy's heart and a girl's heart. She cleans up evils by disguising herself as Princess Knight."

He ended up creating NUMEROUS feminist-leaning and queer-positive characters and stories, for all ages and all ratings. Just out of the basic belief of "Hey, it's unrealistic to NOT depict these people--and to do so in a negative light would be rude."

He made mistakes, yes. But he displayed a lifelong willingness to learn and amend those mistakes.

But let's cut to the chase about WHY I'm personally upset at people applying a purity filter over their assumptions about Tezuka.

Probably his best-known creations in his lifetime were his works for children, Astro-Boy/Tetsuan Atom perhaps being THE most influential. His work for child readers was GROUNDBREAKING. Tezuka did not pull punches when writing for a young audience, filling those stories with the same messages about tolerance and ethics as his work for adult readers. He refused to talk down to his young audience or treat them as lesser--something that unfortunately remains uncommon to this day in kid's media.

As wholly commendable as this was, it left him with a nearly unshakable reputation: "Osamu Tezuka, beloved creator of CHILDREN'S MANGA."

Which was stifling for him! He HATED being pigeonholed like that, and especially how it limited the reception to his more mature oriented works. Worst of all, due to basically creating so many genres of manga, his art style was seen as "outdated" by the time he was barely halfway through his career.

So, he bucked HARD against that reputation! He made hundreds of works for adult readers, from sobering examinations on the nature of human cruelty and kindness to just fun smutty sexy romps, and worked hard to "modernize" his drawing style. Tezuka REFUSED to be left in the dust, while at the same time never discounting his prior work for children.

I suspect it was that desperation to get ahead of the game that makes so much of his work feel so fresh and remarkable to this very day... although that habit of overworking himself invariably led to his early death.

THIS is why it's so very upsetting to see people act shocked that he drew smut, and assume that he must have been hiding it! It's that old reputation that caused him so much legitimate distress in his lifetime, and it's that "art vs porn" attitude that limits and strangles all creatives to this very day.

Tezuka worked hard to buck that assumption of his purity, gleefully exploring sexy fucked up nonsense and serious unflinching examinations on human nature in the same breath.

He was so very, very human himself. He deserves his messy imperfect humanity to be remembered and respected.

Here's to the God of Manga, Osamu Tezuka. Born November 3rd, 1928. Died February 9th, 1989, at the age of 60. A treasure to the world. Shamelessly human.

My special interest is comics and has been since I was around 11 or so, and I will rant to you about Osamu Tezuka for hours on end, so help me god.

"Hiding his porn until he died." People sure do love saying the first thing that comes to their mind without having even a cursory understanding of what they're talking about, huh!!!

#sorry this got so long!#i just really care a lot about tezuka #my recs: black jack. phoenix. buddha. mw (if you can handle it.) princess knight.#and there's no shame in starting with the animations based on his work!!#the black jack ovas and anime series are both very good #the ovas preserve the mature dark grittiness of the manga #while the anime series amplifies the warm hopeful heart of the manga #both are excellent

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years ago

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Disarming (Santi x fem!reader)

Summary: you and Santi - good friends- are Best Man and Maid of Honour at Frankie’s wedding, and guess what? There’s only one bed!

What is this? This is 5/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. The prompt is “We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend”, requested by @woakiees. Another double trope extravaganza! Hadley, I’m so pleased you suggested Santi for this one, as he immediately came to mind when I was writing this prompt :D Thank you so much for requesting! <3

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Apparently I get carried away EVERY time I write Santi. WHY AM I LIKE THIS?! :-/

Word count: 7.5k. I’M SO SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Rating: 18+ ONLY (minors out, please, do not read or interact)

Warnings: it gets angsty in the middle. Reader has nightmare- comfort offered. Mentions of reader being “hurt” in the past but vague and unspecified. They have a fight. One or two alcohol mentions- no actual consumption. Food mention. Swearing. Steam leading into smut but not explicit- mentions of masturbation, erections, making-out, one brief allusion to choking kink. Let me know if I missed anything.

Tagging: @isvvc-pvscvl @casifer-is-king (loads of the tags aren’t working :-/)

GIF: @nathan-bateman

From the first moment you met Santi, you had simply fallen into step with him. It was effortless, and so, as soon as you found yourself by his side, you stayed there. What’s more, that’s exactly where he wanted you to be.

Despite the man’s hard, no-nonsense edge -which you also appreciated- he was warm and charming. It was easy to connect with him, in a way it hadn’t often been for you. For him too - or so the boys told you - the way you surpassed his defences was a rare thing. It shouldn’t have worked, perhaps. Usually, he was slow to trust and you were quick to love, but on this occasion none of that seemed to apply, the two of you tumbling squarely into a fast-friendship; one deeper and more intense, perhaps, than its duration might suggest. Still, despite the boys’ inferences that you would quickly become an item, and Santi’s continual attempts to blur the lines between this and… something more, “friends” is what you have remained.

You had felt it immediately with him. Something different. You simply... flowed. You fit. It was immediately evident, even on that first night, in the way you orbited around one another, setting up an impromptu beer pong of all things. You moved together with a fluidity and a precision that seems almost tactical- as though you too had run countless manoeuvres in the field with him. You could read him and understand him as though you had drilled his habits and patterns and idiosyncrasies over and over; learning him. However, he was never that much effort - the two of you came naturally to each other, little learning required. You knew each other with your gut.

At that fateful party, when you each escaped to the back porch steps for some air at a serendipitous moment, the conversation had immediately flowed, and not only as a result of his natural, disarming charm. The silence even came easily rightaway – a comfortable thing, the space between you stuffed with contentment, rather than the feeling of a gaping vacuum, needlessly filled. It turned out his best friend was dating yours (the pair to be wed this very weekend) but that almost seemed like the cherry on top, rather than the thing bringing you to each other.

Safe to say, what was true then is true now. You get on so well. You find him fun and easy and generous and you love the man dearly.

…Most of the time.

Those other times, though? Santiago “Pope” Garcia can be a pain in your ass. But that’s another reason you love him, you guess. Keeps things interesting.

“Please don’t kill me,” Santi says sheepishly, and it’s obvious to you he’s laying on the charm - actively trying to be as disarming as possible as he saunters over from the reception desk. For a moment, despite all his training, he looks as though he believes you could pull it off, too.

Your annoyance is already prepped; locked and loaded, as he pads squarely towards the banquette where you are sat - amidst a sea of luggage. You’ve been observing his attempts to charm the desk clerk with interest (his efforts, you surmise, at least partially effectual), and judging from the slight level of desperation in his efforts, you can already tell he fucked up somehow.

“What did you do?” you say impatiently, even as a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

“I booked all the rooms we needed, for all of the wedding guests, right? 13 rooms here, and all 10 at the hotel across town. 4 more in guesthouses,” he recaps. “Got Frankie and Mila a great deal too, remember?”

You remember. And yet, you fold your arms across your chest, looking up at him incredulously. Okay then. Rolling with your attitude, the man takes a different tack. He sits next to you. Smiles. Leans in. Pats your thigh. He’s trying to disarm you too, you realise. It’s going to take more than that - you’re not some flimsy desk clerk who will form a puddle and bat your eyes at the first sign of his charm.

“Well, funny story. I may have forgotten to book our rooms,” he blurts.

Oh? Oh, great. Yeah. This is a grand fuck-up. The whole damn town is booked-out. It’s a small town. No longer amused, your nostrils flare in annoyance as you tug in a slow breath, schooling your tone just a little before you speak. “You what?” Okay, you didn’t manage to school it all that much.

“Look, I already sort of fixed it,” he smooths. That explains the flirting with the clerk. Although, you think, glancing back at her. She’s pretty. That partially explains the flirting with the clerk, then, you mentally correct. “There’s just one, teeny-tiny issue.”

You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes. Well?

“We’re gonna have to share a room.”

You blink at him a few times, in surprise. Well, it’s not ideal. For a number of reasons. But you can think of worse things, truth be told. And he’s not wrong. It is a solution. Still, on his reveal, a succession of emotions and micro-assessments are bounced back and forth between your eyes and his, until you land on resigned annoyance, exhaling a long sigh. That is, until Frankie appears in the lobby, swanning in like he’s walking on air. He probably is, given that he’s getting married this weekend. His face splits with a smile so wide you reckon it should be painful to maintain, and you stand to greet him as he heads over.

You’re glad he’s happy. It means that you and Santi, as Maid of Honour and Best man, respectively, are doing a fantastic job of deflecting all of the stress away from the happy couple. Indeed, that assessment certainly feels true – you do feel stressed. Still, the two of you immediately paint your faces with masking smiles; though, in fairness, it’s hard not to smile while looking at Frankie – his obvious joy is infectious.

Frankie wraps you both in a hug, then rubs his palms together like an excited kid. “I don’t have much time. Just gonna say a quick hello to my parents. Apparently, my mom’s already started crying? Can you two sort some extra tissues for the ceremony or something? Oh, and is everything okay with the rooms?”

“With this guy? Are you kidding?”, you say before you think, throwing your thumb towards Santi. Immediately, his eyes submit a powerful plea to you to keep schtum- it is written all over his face that he doesn’t want to let Frankie down. Not even in the smallest of ways.

Frankie would find his little error funny, probably. But he can find it funny after the ceremony. “Everything is A-OK! This guy? He has every single detail taken care of.”

Frankie grins, his eyes narrowing proudly at Santi as he slaps him on the back, laying profuse thanks on the two of you; then, he floats away again, as if on a cloud. Santi’s brown eyes are big with gratitude when you look at him again, and you can’t help but weaken. You’ll admit, it’s really not that bad of a fuck-up. Besides, you’re tired. Between the drive out here, the wedding rehearsal, and a never-ending list of errands, the day has been long. You just want to get to the room, and maybe even clock a snooze before the rehearsal dinner tonight.

“Fine,” you agree, albeit through gritted teeth. “We can share a damn room.”

Santi looks visibly relieved, and squeezes your shoulder in thanks. You’d even been nice enough not to bite his head off. “Yeah. We can share a room, right? It’s only for a weekend.” Suddenly, he doesn’t sound quite as certain.

“Sure. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?” you smile nervously.

He returns your smile and swivels, heading back towards the desk.

“Oh, wait!” you call after him. “Is it a double or a twin?” you ask in horror. Sharing a room is one thing, but sharing a bed?

He turns, looking over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter!”, he winks. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna have to take it.”

Oh. Oh dear.

You’re inclined to agree -you don’t have many options- but when you catch yourself stealing a glance at the man’s shapely butt as he walks back to the desk, you begin to chew your bottom-lip nervously.

Right. Ha.

What could possibly go wrong?

**********************

It turns out, sharing a room with Santi is resoundingly not bad at all. In fact, at first, it’s as easy as everything else is with him - even between your hurried preparations for the evening, unpacking, shuttling items to the relevant members of the wedding party, and calling down to reception several times to check the logistics for the rehearsal dinner. Even getting dressed, you find an easy flow as you each flit in and out of the bathroom, dancing around each other with ease and only a hint of friendly bickering.

Santi’s respectful too- always knocking and announcing himself before entering a space, and averting his gaze when he needs to, given that you’re rushing around and undressing. You even manage to ignore the fact there’s only one bed for the longest time, parking that specific panic for later. Even then, he has already made reception send up extra pillows and blankets, forming a barricade in the middle of the bed so you two can comfortably separate.

Thankfully, you are so busy that the idea of sharing a bed with Santi doesn’t even cross your mind until you’re finally ready, dressed in your finery. When you step out of the bathroom, Santi -sat on the edge of said bed- stands up, thrusting his hands into his suit trousers as he takes the sight of you in, pulling the material taut -in a rather pleasing way- across his hips and thighs. He ends up slightly slack-jawed for a moment as his eyes trail over you, brewing with a gentle, self-conscious heat. “Fuck,” he says softly, his voice gruff. “You look…” a little gulp trails down his throat as you give him a little twirl. “…hot”, he says, his eyebrow ticking up on the last beat.

“Wait until you see my bridesmaid dress,” you smile, and he returns it easily, those gorgeous creases appearing around his eyes.

Unconsciously, you lick your lips. You can’t help but wonder, vaguely, what it would be like to push him down on to the mattress. Maybe straddle him. Fuck, you should have known this would be a bad idea. A heat rising in your face at that thought of that, you distract yourself by lifting his suit jacket from the back of the chair, holding it out for him as he slips it on to his shoulders, and feeling the luxurious texture of it beneath your fingers.

It’s a grey suit, tailored, and it hugs him in all the right places. The cool colour is perfect against his warm-toned brown skin, and brings out the salt in his salt-and-pepper curls, and in the rough rasp of grey flecked through his stubble.

You try desperately not to notice how good he looks, but this may be your greatest challenge yet.

“Come on,” you encourage, nodding towards the door. “We better head down.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, half-heartedly. The way his eyes are subtly roving over you, though, he looks like he has something entirely different in mind for dinner.

“You’re probably going to spend all night being chased by the single bridesmaids,” you add casually as you collect your purse, and apply a final dab of lipstick in front of the mirror. You’ve already clocked a few members of the wedding party eyeing him up, and you don’t exactly blame them for being thirsty. Besides, Santi is a huge flirt; so perhaps he’ll be the one doing the chasing. You wouldn’t be surprised if he ended the night with his tongue thrust deep in someone’s throat, which -you assume- is typical Santi fashion.

“Isn’t it traditional, anyway,” he smirks cheekily, applying a splash of cologne, “for the Best Man to hook-up with one of the bridesmaids?”

Lord, does he have to smell so… edible.

“Got news for you, man. You fucked up. You can’t exactly bring a girl back to your room now, can you?!” you tease, nodding back towards your shared bed, a wall of pillows already arranged down the middle. You mean it to come out in good-humour, but you can’t scrub the hint of jealousy from your tone entirely.

You feel so silly for being jealous of whomever he may hook-up with. After all, Santi is always the one testing the boundaries of friendship with you. It’s not like he’s ever made a secret of the fact he’s attracted to you- and you are the one here will a firm line in the sand. A line you simply won’t cross with him. Can’t cross. You want to - of course you do, but after being hurt in the past, you have simply built-up far too many defences; or, more accurately, just the right amount of defences, you think, to protect you. So, no matter how disarming the man is, you simply have to keep your guard up; because if he breached your walls, you know everything else would come tumbling so easily down.

You had fallen so easily into friendship with him, and you are certain that you would fall just as recklessly in love with him.

You’re not ready for that.

You can’t take being hurt again. Besides; Santi? He’s an incredible friend. He’s tenaciously loyal and dedicated to his squad. But when it comes to love, and sex, you doubt whether serious is even his thing - and you’re too afraid to ask.

“You ready to do this?” he asks, with a wink.

“Yep,” you nod. “Let’s roll,” and with that, you turn, heading for the hallway.

“Princesa- that dress really highlights your ass,” he praises as he tags along behind you.

“Thank you, it’s true,” you smile devilishly, already beginning to let your guard down, just a little. He’s simply so disarming. “Speaking of, Garcia – did you get your trousers a size too small on purpose?”

“Oh, you noticed?” he retorts, smugly, guiding you through the door with a hand on the small of your back.

Okay. Sometimes you flirt back. After all – look at him.

Especially in that damn suit.

***********************************

The rehearsal dinner goes swell. Frankie and Mila are a picture-perfect, loved-up couple, and they grin their way through the evening as if they slept with coat hangers in their mouths. The speeches are well-received, including Will’s, thus setting a high bar for you and Santi tomorrow. (You may be biased, but Santi’s is ten times funnier, and it’s going to kill, in your opinion.) There are no dramas through the evening- logistical or familial, and thanks to you and Santi overseeing everything with a military precision, it looks as though -so far- it is shaping up to be the perfect wedding weekend.

Finally, once your duties are over for the night, you are able to let your hair down a little, so to speak, and enjoy the food and company on offer. Still, with a big day ahead tomorrow, things wind down relatively early, and -having lost track of Santi at some point- you find yourself back at the shared room a little while before him. You usually burn out more quickly than he does in social situations, but even taking that into consideration, you begin to fret about where he has gotten to. With the way he was flirting his way through the party, though, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what (or who) might be keeping him up.

You try to sleep but you can’t, your mind going to the worst places, so, by the time Santi does return -softly cracking the door, and padding in with his shoes in his hands so as not to wake you- you have stewed in your own thoughts long enough to have become a little cranky. A little… green-eyed.

“Hey,” he greets in surprise when he enters, immediately noticing the soft lamp glow, and seeing you still sitting up in the bed, mindlessly watching the flicker of the tv on mute.

“Hey,” you return, your voice noticeably strained. “Have a fun time?” You find yourself wishing you weren’t sharing a room, then you wouldn’t have to know what he got up to.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, slipping off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. “Did you? How come you’re still up? Thought for sure you’d be wiped out by now.”

So, he did think of you, then?

“Couldn’t sleep,” you reply neutrally, fixing your eyes dead ahead as he begins to slip out of his trousers and shirt too, until he’s dressed in only his tight black boxers. Next, he takes off his watch and sets it at the bedside, and you notice that he smells of perfume. A cloying, floral scent that makes you feel a little sick.

“Just gonna have a quick shower and then I’ll slip in with you, okay?” he says, his voice slow and deep and muted, matching the soft light.

You still don’t look at him. You can’t.

“Do what you want. You usually do,” you bite, the words tasting bitter as soon as they have left your lips, and tears of regret pooling as your anger dissolves.

You don’t blame him if he was with someone – you really don’t. You’re simply angry at yourself; because you wish you could be that person, and you can’t for the life of you seem to find a way.

“Okay. What was that for?” he bristles, reacting defensively, turning towards you. And perhaps it’s because it’s late and he’s tired, or because certain demons feel safer coming out under the cover of darkness, but he doesn’t stop there. Especially when all he gets from you is a stony, pointed silence. “You know what? Actually, no. You don’t get to do this”, he hisses, and it is the first time you’ve ever heard him direct any genuine anger at you.

It doesn’t half sting.

“Do what?” you ask, but you already know the answer.

“You don’t get to be mad when I give my attention to someone who actually wants it,” his voice is hushed, but his words rattle through you as if he had yelled them. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Guess what, I’m not yours.”

“That’s not fair”, you snap back, and then things are quickly escalating.

“Isn’t it?” he asks, rasping a hand over his stubble in distress. “I mean, come on. Shit. You know that I want more but I…” he exhales a disgruntled laugh. “You shoot me down, which is your prerogative, honestly, but you can’t have it both ways. You can’t knock me back all the time and then be pissed off when I look elsewhere.”

You meet his face, the planes of it shadowed and angled harshly with anger, suddenly so unfamiliar to you, and it causes your eyes to bloom with tears. You two look the opposite of Frankie and Mila; of a picture-perfect couple. But you’re not even a couple at all, are you?

You see him try. To blunt the emotion which is bubbling up. To soften. But he has uncorked something he now can’t put back in. “Fuck, I just wish that….” he pinches his lips together and shakes his head, planting his hands on his hips and looking at the floor. “If you don’t want me, just put me out of my fucking misery. Just say it. Just fucking tell me.”

Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces at the thought you make him miserable. At the way his voice breaks. At the way he thinks you don’t want him. Maybe you were wrong, thinking that you could be friends at all. Thinking that could be enough for him.

Your lower lip trembles, and your fingers clutch the edge of the blanket. “I… I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you that I don’t want you, Santi.”

You can’t because it isn’t true. It could not be further from the truth, in fact.

He puffs out air, an exasperated sound, his hand raising up to tangle in his grizzled curls. Raising his voice a little more. “Let me guess. You can’t tell me the other thing either?”

“I.. I..” You try, but no words will come. You simply shake your head, swallowing a sob, your eyes almost brimming over.

He nods. He nods, his mouth slanted down. “Great. Got it,” he huffs.

You hate this. You hate how much you’re hurting him.

“Santi,” you breathe weakly, but it is too weak to blunt the force of his emotion. To halt his trajectory, and so, resigned, he turns towards the bathroom, grabbing-up a fresh white towel from the counter. Before he closes the door, he turns to you once more, now speaking softly, his eyes as sad as yours. “You know,” he says, his index finger sawing back-and-forth over the stubble at his chin. “For the record, I wasn’t with anyone else. I can’t even fucking think about anyone else but you. I was late back to the room because I couldn’t face it.” His voice becomes small and pained. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to just curl up next to you and act like I don’t care.” His eyebrow ticks up, and he adds, with a final flourish. “Guess I should have taken a lesson from you.”

Oh, how it stings, pain flowering in your chest like a bruise, but you hold yourself together until he’s out of sight. Then, when he’s gone, you immediately cave in on yourself, falling on to your side and screwing your eyes shut, clamping your hand over your mouth so that he can’t hear you crying as wet tears spill onto your pillow.

When he comes back into the room, after a long shower, you simply screw your eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. You hear him sigh heavily, and mumble something to himself under his breath, before dragging a few pillows and a spare blanket down on to the floor.

A few more silent tears roll over the bridge of your nose.

You guess you wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him after all.

***********************

You wake panicked in the night, sitting bolt upright in the bed. A cold wash of sweat over your skin chills you, even though you feel like you’re burning-up.

Immediately, you reach for him, for Santi, calling his name even as your fear strangles the sound in your throat. Your heart is thudding, and your breaths are sawing in and out of you, but your grasping hands find nothing to your side but pillows and blanket.

Unfortunately, you are used to this occurrence, and you quickly realise it was “only” a nightmare. Still, the feelings and images it conjured linger in your body, and around you in the shifting, seemingly fluid shadows of the room.

With a release of tension, you whimper, leaning forward and cradling your head in your trembling hands, and you try to ground yourself. To steady your breath and your heartbeat, like you’ve practiced. As you do so, the shadows to your left shift and change, and, even in the pitch-black you can feel him, a safe and warm presence, instantly travelling to your side, his weight dipping the mattress. His soothing, sandy voice filtering through the shadows and cutting back the tendrils of your nightmare like a Disney prince hacking through cursed vines.

You vaguely remember that he’s mad at you - but you can’t help it. Can’t help asking. “Hold me?” you plead, desperately afraid that he won’t.

Still, without questions or hesitation, you feel the wall of remaining pillows coming down, the defences around you quite literally being dismantled – a figurative wall between you shifting away along with it. He shushes you, and you focus on his voice, until he is close enough that the scent of him wraps around you, before his arms follow closely after.

You reach for him in return. You reach for him in every way possible.

“It’s just a nightmare,” he soothes. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you,” and there is pain in his voice on your behalf, as if he tries to bear the burden of it for you.

“Closer,” you plead, and before you know it, he is shifting you on to your side, slotting his sturdy yet soft body around you, not caring that you feel clammy and hot against his bare skin. He simply loops his arms and draws your back, closer to his chest, becoming your big spoon.

He calms you, hands enveloping yours and bundling them against your chest, his nose nuzzling into your hair, and his deep steady breaths slowing your breathing as you let his calm and his rhythms overcome you. He holds you, until the feelings pass, not caring how long it takes – and with any anger from before apparently forgotten.

This pain is all too familiar to him, you know. It something that Santi understands. It is your own and it is not the same as his, true, but you know it is familiar enough that he will feel the ache of it echoing in his own chest. You know that he is accustomed enough to bearing his own pain, that when yours is too heavy to carry, he will help you hold it for a while. And so, he holds you, while you are a tender thing, bruised and afraid, and he keeps you safe; with all your walls down, all of your defences collapsed, he becomes your fortress.

You never thought that letting yourself be so vulnerable could allow you to feel quite as safe as this.

As you lie together, Santi continues to usher soft reassurances into your ear, his words like charms and incantations to ward off the ghosts which haunt you. And, after a series of slow, stretched moments, you become more settled, and Santi feels you relax against him.

After a few moments more, he eventually whispers a small question into your hair. In the dark, the question feels safe to come out, perhaps.

“Do you always call for me when you…?” he trails off, thinking better of it. “I’m sorry- forget it, you don’t have to answer that.”

You don’t. You know you don’t. You don’t even truthfully know the answer. It’s likely that you do call for him, though how would you know, when you’re usually alone? But, there is something else you can tell him, while it is safe to come out in the dark. Something you want to tell him, before you build your walls all the way back up.

“Santi,” you begin, timidly, and his fingers skim softly up and down your arms, encouraging you to go on. “I-I’ve been hurt before. And, I want to be with you. I want to let you in but… I’m. I’m not ready. I’m trying so hard but I… I can’t.”

There is a long beat, and you realise he has held in a breath only when he releases it all at once, fanning hot across the back of your neck.

You are afraid. Afraid of what he might say, in response – what he might feel, but you think, maybe, it might be something like relief? And, Santi squeezes you, just a little tighter. A little closer. “Don’t worry about that now, okay?” he soothes, his voice feather soft. “Just… know one thing, okay, Princesa? Whenever you are ready? I’m waiting.”

This time your heart fills with a different emotion, all the spaces in it flooded with contentment, Santi’s words followed by a perfect, happy silence.

A soft smile blooms on your face.

It was not a confession of waiting impatiently, you understand, but an invitation to take your time to arrive at him. He’s not trying to bring down your defences at all, is he? He’s waiting for you to open the door, and invite him in. He’s waiting until you are ready. He simply needed to know that you are on your way, even if your footsteps are getting you there slowly.

For now, though, the thought of it is too much. More than you’re ready for.

So, you simply let him hold you.

To disarm you further.

To walk yourself a little closer toward where you want to be. With him; by his side.

****************************************

In the morning, you wake up tangled around each other, Santi’s arm wrapped securely around your back and your head settled on his chest. He is still snoring lightly – cutely - when you awake, and so, as the night prior comes flooding back to you, you hastily try to extricate yourself from him; even if his bare skin feels so good against yours that you never want to move. You’re apparently not so subtle- or he’s a helluva light-sleeper – as, just when you pull away, Santi wakes up, quickly rushing to prove his innocence.

“You had a nightmare,” he croaks, still trying to peel his eyes open. “You asked me to- “.

“-I know. I remember,” you reassure, sitting up in bed, the blankets tugged to your chest. Santi shuffles, opting to assume the same position on his own side, mirroring you, rubbing his eyes.

You’re still not sure whether to apologise to him or thank him. Or maybe even to wait for an apology from him? Christ. Maybe all of those things or none of them, who even knows? You mentally spin a wheel and land on a casual “Uh. Thank you, for…. You know.”

“Anytime,” he says, turning his head to the side and looking at you earnestly. As if your bickering -your jealousy and his outburst- is all but forgotten. What’s more, you know that he means it.

Admiringly, your eyes wander over him, enjoying a side of him you’ve never quite seen before. Apparently, he’s even more handsome in the morning, with an even thicker, darkened brush of stubble, his grizzled curls dishevelled, and his swooping eyelids still heavy from sleep. Combined, it gives him a sultry, bedroom look. Feeling an involuntary rush of heat in the pit of you, your gaze drops to his corded neck, where, given the special occasion, he has substituted his dog tags for a silver chain, drawing your gaze down over his smooth, brown chest.

Your skin now cooling in the conditioned air of the room, you long for his body heat again, recalling how it felt to be held by him and wishing you had lingered a little longer while you could. Even with your interrupted sleep last night, you have somehow woken feeling refreshed, as though you had slept unreasonably deeply in his arms, reaching a whole new level of contentment - as though you just fit together, perhaps. As though it comes naturally for you to be held by him, and for him to hold you.

There is a silence and it isn’t awkward exactly; more… pregnant, with possibilities. Possibilities you see brewing with a gentle heat in his eyes. So, tearing yourself abruptly away from that line of thought, you lift your phone up from the nightstand, and note that there isn’t long before your alarms sound anyway.

Operation Wedding Day is go.

That should be enough of a distraction for you, shouldn’t it?

“You ready for this, Best Man?” you ask him, with a gentle quirk of your lips.

“Sure. Are you ready, Maid of Honour?”

Ready. Are you ready?

Thoughts of last night swirl in your head.

Well – as Santi flashes you a tentative, disarming smile, with hooded eyes, you certainly feel like you’re getting there. Like soon you could be ready.

“Sure. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Atta girl,” he encourages, folding his arms behind his head as you jump out of bed.

You suddenly don’t care that you’re in nothing but your underwear, as you stretch out your body and track towards the bathroom. “I’ll shower first?”

“We’re sharing a bed,” he teases. “Sure you don’t want to share a shower too?”

You scoff, flashing a mischievous smile right back at him. You’ve always had a soft spot for his flirting, but you feel like -after all that transpired last night- you truly see if for what it is now. You realise why it has never felt like he’s pressuring you - not once. He’s simply reminding you, that as soon as you call for him, he’ll be there. That he’s waiting, when you’re ready.

Reminding you, that as soon as your walls drop, he’ll be your fortress.

“I don’t think you’re gonna get quite that lucky this morning, Garcia.”

You do linger in the doorway, just a little longer than necessary though, so that he can get a better look at you. He’d never look without permission – he proved that yesterday, when you were in various states of disarray- but this time, sensing your invitation, his eyes graze over you slowly, keenly. So, when he strategically moves his hands from behind his head to hide the tenting covers, you don’t mind at all.

You smile devilishly as you slip into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You’re not sure if he will… take care of himself out in the room – how could you know? But, feeling inspired, you certainly do so in the shower, and it’s a pretty great wake-up call before you face the wedding day.

Maybe sharing a room isn’t so bad. Maybe you could even get used to it.

*********************************************

Frankie and Mila get hitched without a hitch.

Santi goes to the ends of the earth to make sure that Frankie has the best day possible- and at some points, he goes even further than that. His speech was moving and flawless, and pretty fucking funny; even if you are a little (or a lot) biased. Not a dry eye in the house, just as you predicted.

The man adores Frankie with his whole heart, and you could barely hold back the glow of admiration as you listened to him, feeling like it might burst from your chest like a beam of gold sunlight. You felt it especially strongly every time his eyes met yours during the course of the speech, and you couldn’t help but smile yourself stupid each time he did so. And, of course, you were overjoyed to see your best friend have the day of her dreams, with the man of her dreams. If you do say so yourself, you think your speech was pretty killer too.

Suffice to say, you ate until your belly was full, loved until your heart hurt, laughed until your sides ached, and danced until your feet ached.

Tonight, unlike last night, you and Santi retire to your shared room at the same time, your arm linked into his, and your shoes carried in your hand to spare your sore feet – there’s a reason you never normally wear shoes like this. Without your heels though, you keep tripping over the hem of your dress almost every few paces, causing you to giggle and Santi to steady you with a warm, rich chuckle, sometimes throwing you an extra hand to assist you.

You look over at him, furtively, as he recounts some of the more choice moments from the day, immensely enjoying the simple pleasure of hearing him talk and smile and laugh. Seeing him happy. Of course, enjoying how he looks too, you have to admit - even more handsome than he did yesterday (somehow) in midnight blue dress pants, and a white, crisp shirt, now tieless. He’s only grown sexier as the evening drew on too, now with a wide open-collar and rolled up sleeves to accommodate all of the dancing; or, at least, as much dancing as his knees could handle, until he’d simply opted to sit to the side and watch you boogie, his eyes apparently transfixed on you and only you - the advances of the other bridesmaids be damned.

There is something that hits different about the way he looked at you today. His admiration shining deeper than usual. Less like a casual lust, and more like something… serious. You’re not sure why you doubted it before, exactly. Why you have been so inordinately afraid that he might hurt you. You broadly figured him for a smash and dash type of man, which is fine, but you have every reason to believe that he wants more with you.

After all, Santi can be deeply and tenaciously loyal. He has dedicated himself to things deeply and unwaveringly several times over in his life. To his country, to his missions, to his morals, to his squad. And there’s something about the way he looked at you today, you think, that suggests he might dedicate himself to you with the same tenacity. Something far deeper than appreciating how you look in this bridesmaid dress (and oh boy do you look hot). It’s more like the way he looks at Frankie. A little different to that, obviously. But you’re realising he looks at you like he’d never let you down. Not even in the smallest of ways. Like he’d rather go to the ends of the earth -or beyond- than do that.

At least… you think so.

You are sure about one thing though. The way he looks at you? It’s thoroughly disarming.

And so, you arrive at your shared room, utterly wiped out from the day (and night), yet still somehow buzzing with an energy. A gentle suffusing heat under your skin as you watch Santi walk inside and kick off his shoes at the end of the bed, before turning back towards you.

You have entered a few paces behind him, after nearly tripping on your gown all over again by the door, but now, you are quite steady on your feet - aside from that slight, nervous tremble in your quaking legs as he looks at you like that. As Santi looks you up and down, eyes skimming over the contours of your dress and hence everywhere it hugs your figure. Evidently, he likes what he sees.

“Wow,” he breathes, his brown eyes shining as if he’s looking at you for the first time that day, even if his gaze has barely left you all night. “I know it’s the bride’s day, but you look fuckin’ smokin’, sweetie.”

“You think so?” you ask humbly, suddenly feeling unreasonably shy. Flustered even.

“Yeah. I think so,” he nods, positively certain. “Shit, you’re so beautiful.”

You look at him. You look at him in a way which suggests an answer in your eyes instead of a question. A clear intention in your body, instead of uncertainty. But he doesn’t push you. He doesn’t assume. He doesn’t make a move. Instead, his mouth tugs up into a lopsided smile, offering you a lazy flash of teeth, and he shoves his thumbs into his belt loops.

“Well, we’re officially off the clock now, so I’m calling it. Well done, Maid of Honour. Think we nailed it? Made a pretty damn good team?”

A smile lights your face. You did. You flowed. You fit. It was easy.

Fuck. It feels so easy. Why had you ever thought this would be hard?

You nibble on your lip, eyeing him with intention, and a hard swallow trails down his throat in response.

“Off the clock, hmm?” you say breathily. “No more titles or duties? Huh. That’s a real shame.”

“How so?” he asks, his eyes devouring you alive, but his body fixed resolutely in place. Transfixed to the spot.

“Because it’s traditional for the Best Man to get with one of the bridesmaids, isn’t it?”

A slow, disbelieving smile inches over his face, and he looks at his feet, a little bashful. “Gross tradition. Kinda sexist,” he says, and your gaze fixates on his full, curving lips. On his hands, poised and broad at his belt.

“So, you don’t want to make out then?” you ask in your most sultry voice, mere breath.

The man huffs out a quick, broken exhale. “Fuck me. You know I do, sweetie. But only if you’re ready.”

Ready. Are you ready?

“Santiago,” you say, with conviction, your eyes dancing between his. “I’m ready.”

Santi searches your face one last time, just to be certain. He’s sure, of course – has been for a long time, but he needs to know that you truly want this. That you want this now. So, he looks at you, and he finds nothing but permission. Even so, after so long, he still can’t quite believe it. He would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe – or beyond – and, so dammit, he will ask you again.

“C-can I..” he begins, and his voice already sounds choked; hollowed out with need. “Fuck, Princesa, can I kiss you?”

Too long. Too long without moving. Without touching. Too long.

If you were suddenly ready, his kiss becomes even more suddenly overdue.

“You’d better,” you encourage, feeling like vapour. “Unless you want me to do it first.”

With permission granted, you expect him to be on you, with a surge. All at once. But Santi has been patiently waiting for you long enough. He can wait just a little longer, and, when he subtly tips his chin up, ever so slightly, and when he near growls “come here then, honey,” somehow, it is perfect. Somehow, it is a thousand times hotter that he makes you come to him.

You lift the hem of your dress, and you pad delicately towards him, feeling like you are wading through molten honey to get to him, the air thick and sweet.

“That’s it. Come here, baby,” he encourages, with a curl of his index finger beckoning you to him, his voice curling in the pit of you, making you feel weak in the best way possible. Making you feel spent before he’s even done so much as brush you with his hand or his lips.

You close the remaining distance with your steps, the anticipation too much, and your legs feeling so weak from the reckless lust and the light, liquid softness in his eyes. By this point, you are begging for his arms to reach out and clasp you- to hold you up; make you secure and safe in him. You are begging for his lips to sink down on to yours. But he makes you wait, through a few more slow, stretched moments. Makes you inch your mouth closer and closer until your lips are almost skimming his. He makes you wait until you are moaning his name into the air before he has even touched you.

“Santi.”

And, if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that when you call for him, he is always there to take care of you.

You know he will take care of you.

With that, his name a plea, he swoops his broad, large hand up until he is holding you, his fingers closing around your jaw and your throat, trailing down your neck. His touch is painfully gentle, but in a way that makes you want him to squeeze, a little harder. In a way that makes you push yourself ever so subtly into his hand. A way that draws a silken moan from deep in your chest, and Santi is moved to dip the pad of his thumb into your mouth, where it meets your wet and willing warmth. When your tongue skims him, humming as you taste his saltiness, that seems to be the final straw, a wrecked groan sounding from his throat, and finally he surges on to your lips, leading with his tongue, thrusting into your open mouth and drinking down every sound and moan he can draw from you, his stubble rough against you. You don’t care if he leaves you raw.

It’s tender, and it’s gentle, but Santi knows all about control, and you can tell he’s holding back. His hands are lethal, and he knows just how to kill you softly; but, you are certain, that if you want more of his power, he’ll give it to you. That he’ll take care of you however you like.

So, he kisses you more deeply, harder, and you go near limp against him until one of his arms wraps at the back of your head and one at the small of your back, making you feel a feeble thing, waning in his arms as his large hands support you. Except; you’re not feeble though. You’re not by a long shot, and you know exactly what you want.

“Santi,” you suspire, letting him walk you back against the wall, pressing his bulging arousal into you as more wrangled sounds and little grunts slip from his parted lips.

“Yeah, baby?” he asks, already sounding wrecked for you.

“There’s only one shower. Wanna share?!”

Even as he releases an endlessly eager, disbelieving breath, his eyes keenly search your face, checking you are ready. He watches, enraptured, as your lips curl into a deliciously sinful smile.

“You know. We don’t have to rush this,” he insists, even as he shivers with need, closing his eyes and biting his lip when you angle your hips to brush the tenting bulge at his crotch, ever so fleetingly, his hips bucking into you immediately in pursuit of more pressure.

“I know,” you say coolly, your body an undercurrent of frenzy, but your mind calm and sure. You push him back, with your palms to his chest, making room for you to about-turn into the bathroom, shimmying off your dress as you go and letting it waft to the floor like a sigh. Looking at him over your shoulder, with lust-blown eyes, you leave Santi stood there, entirely dumbfounded, as you reveal all of yourself to him.

You retreat, but once the water is running you call out to him, wondering where he has got to. “Take a hint, Garcia. If you’re ready? I’m waiting.”

And, he doesn’t waste another second before joining you.

THE END

(BONUS: Outfit inspo, if you wanna imagine him in the suits a lil better 😉)

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac

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mexcraziness · 1 year ago

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Honestly yeah, I agree with pretty much everything you said! (I have a bunch of other complaints too, but that’s because I’m really passionate about the Book and I had some criticisms for S1 too because of that but I’m trying my best to seperate them and treat the Show as it’s own Thing) S2 absolutely felt like a step-down, I think the biggest problem was that it was a really simple story they tried to set-up as something big and important, like it was this big mystery and big threat... and then in the end it was literally summed up in like, 10 minutes of the last episode (Which I’m also mad about, because damn, if they’re gonna make the whole Thing about Gabriel and Beelzebub, can we spend more than??? 5 minutes on their development?? Like the conclusion to All That was just so underwhelming, but I digress) They dragged out this simple story for *6 fucking episodes* some of which didn’t even amount to anything in the end (I’m pretty sure Aziraphale’s whole investigation episode in Scotland turned out to be literally pointless in the end???) and it was padded out to all hell to make it 6 episodes long Like don’t get me wrong, I’m always here for more Aziraphale/Crowley historical flashbacks but so much of them seemed??? redundant? this season? like a lot of them were about things we already covered in S1, just longer this time Or just straight up ????? like you really didn’t need to expand the London bombing flashback into All That, what the hell was that whole zombie thing, actual nonsense padding So many of these could have been executed so much better To keep it short (because boy I could ramble for pages) my biggest problem is that the whole season feels like 95% of padding and just stalling for time to drag out the story for 6 episodes whith interesting intrigue bits thrown in here and there, which, considering this is a “Bridge Season” makes sense, this is literally Padding and Fanservice the Season, doesn’t make me any less mad it was executed the way it was tho As for why didn’t they do the *actual* Season, SAME, honestly first I thought “Why didn’t they just make this a 2-3 episode arc in the actual Season, part of the whole Second Coming thing???” but then I had the thought that maybe there was a deal with Amazon behind he scenes, Good Omens is super popular after all, maybe Amazon wanted an extra in-between Season, but who knows Anyways, yeah to summ it up, way too simple story, hyped up way too much and dragged out way too long with way too much padding with a lot of smaller other problems sprinkled on top Like a small summary of the other things that just dragged down the Season for me: -The Humans were nice, but nowhere near as charming and interesting as the humans were in S1, to me they even got straight up annoying at the end, also I felt like I was supposed to care a lot more about them than the show made me to?? -Absolutely furious over the opening scene, Aziraphale and Crowley having known eachother before the Fall an Aziraphale being fond of him, I really do think this just ruins their whole relationship set-up, like the whole Point -As much as their dynamic was amazing, the married behavior was super fun, I think the overall Season borderline ruined their charachters and the development they had in S1, specially Aziraphale’s -I’m not even gonna touch their final confrontation (again, Aziraphale, charachter whomst) -I know I already mentioned the History Flashbacks, and I can’t go into it too deeply right now, because I’m gonna have to re-watch both Seasons to properly put this into words, but??? Idk, some of them really felt like it contradicted their already established relationship and charachter developments, like on the historical timeline, sorry if this doesn’t make much sense, I’m still digesting what felt Off about it -And this is just to me personally, but I think there was a bit too much OOC-y fanservice, but compared to the rest of my problems I’m almost willing to let that go) Sorry for the rant novel, I’m having a lot of thoughts about the Season and honestly it’s kind of a relief I’m not the only one who feels this way! Makes me feel a little less insane

Well, Good Omens S2 was a dissapointment at best, straight up insulting at worst This absolutely didn't need to be 6 episodes, holy shit Anyways, seething, I'm terrified for S3, can't wait

#Good Omens #Good Omens Season 2 #Good Omens Spoilers #Good Omens Season 2 Spoilers

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x-childish-x · 4 years ago

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hello, i noticed there’s been a growth of obi wan requests on your page. if you don’t mind, may i also request an obi wan x reader fanfic (preferably a female reader)? my idea is that the reader is related to qui gon, maybe a niece of his that he looks after since her parents passed. after qui gon’s death, reader decides to become a jedi and she and obi wan grow closer over the years, and finally confess their love for each other after they both become masters?

Long Time Coming

Pairing: Obi-Wan x fem!reader

Fandom: Star Wars

Warnings: ansgt?, fluff, mentions to multiple character deaths, mentions of a funeral

Word Count: 2,417

A/N: This is quite long! I'm sorry if that's not something you like! Firstly, thank you for the request and support! I appreciate it so much and feedback is always more than welcome and appreciated!! This request was super unique and I had a fun time writing it despite feeling the need to absolutely perfect it, lol. Anyways, I really hope this is what you wanted and that you enjoy it!

P.S. I am out of surgery and now starting recovery. Everything’s gone well so far, but I probably won’t be posting much. Check my page for a form to send in some questions for me to answer!!

Summary: Obi-Wan's been trying to catch your attention for years and after your uncle Qui-Gon Jinn's death, you find comfort in Obi-Wan like never before.

(gif not mine!)

"(Y/n), we're making another stop. We don't have enough fuel to make it back to Coruscant. We're landing on Tattooine," Your uncle, Qui-Gon, spoke softly through the holopad.

"I found the planet," Obi-Wan beamed at you, hoping this fact would impress you.

You smiled widely, nodding to Obi-Wan, "Keep this old man out of trouble for me, won't you Obi-Wan?"

The young boy nodded vigorously as your uncle rolled his eyes, "You're getting quite old yourself (y/n). I urge you to rethink your choice of not becoming a Jedi before you're using a cane."

"We could train together!" Obi-Wan cheered, his eyes glinting with hope as he looked up at his master, "I would do well at bringing her up to speed!"

There seemed to be something that happened off the holopad that you couldn't see. Both men turned their heads before looking back at you with nearly identical looks of remorse.

"We're landing soon. I must leave," Qui-Gon frowned, "Stay out of trouble. I'll return soon."

Over the next few days, Obi-Wan and your uncle did their best to keep in contact with you. Though it wasn't much, barely once a day, it was still something, and that very much made you smile. Each call was a relief because they were both alive. They were okay. They would be home soon.

"A boy?" You questioned Obi-Wan.

"Yes, his name is Anakin Skywalker," He frowned slightly before leaning more towards his holopad, whispering, "I'm beginning to think Qui-Gon likes him better than me."

"Nonsense!" You laughed, "Qui-Gon loves you! It's impossible to not love you!"

Immediately realizing what you said, your cheeks flushed with heat, Obi-Wan's reaction mocking yours. You missed Obi-Wan, he was your best friend after all, and it wasn't often that Qui-Gon and he left on such long missions.

"There was this thing," Obi-Wan spoke up, "He wielded a red lightsaber."

"That doesn't sound good," You frowned, wishing Obi-Wan was more than just a hologram before you.

He nodded before his attention was stolen off-screen, and he huffed, "I have to go. We'll be home soon!"

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

"What is this about you being attacked!" You yelped, jogging up to Qui-Gon.

He smiled at your concern, "I am fine. He escaped. We believe he's a sith, that they've returned. The good news is the boy we found will be my new Padawan."

"I don't care about the boy," You hissed, glaring up at your uncle, "I care about you being safe, about not losing you!"

Unexpectedly, Qui-Gon pulled you into his chest. Tears welled in your eyes at the action he so rarely did, your arms wrapping as tight as they could around his torso. You felt a kiss pressed to the top of your head and immediately squeezed tighter, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Please... I can't lose you too, Uncle."

Qui-Gon winced at your words, knowing how dangerous it was to form attachments, yet it'd been impossible with you. From the moment you'd come under his care, you'd immediately bonded. There was no way you wouldn't have formed an attachment with him and he with you.

You'd showed up on his doorstep fourteen years ago when you were only nine. You had clutched your stuffed bantha to your chest with tears running down your cheeks, mumbling all about how 'mommy and daddy were gone' and 'I need you, uncle Qui-Gon'. His heart immediately shattered. The passing of his brother had reached him a few hours before your arrival, and the nanny behind you gave the older man a soft smile before nudging you forward.

You bounded forward, slamming into Qui-Gon's legs with a loud sob that had the older man lifting you into his arms instantly. You'd been destroyed by the sudden and mysterious loss of your parents. You sought comfort in your uncle Qui-Gon and his young Padawan. You'd spent years denying the chance to become a Jedi, afraid you were too imbalanced in your emotions.

You pulled back from Qui-Gon, allowing him to wipe your tears before he kissed your head once more. He moved, walking over to Obi-Wan, and you watched as the two talked before separating. Obi-Wan walked towards you, but your eyes locked on a small boy behind him who stood next to what looked like an R2 droid.

"We're leaving again," Obi-Wan sighed, frowning at your slightly red cheeks and glassy eyes.

You nodded, biting your lip before finally locking eyes with Obi-Wan, "Please take care of him... I have a terrible feeling Obi-Wan."

"I will," Obi-Wan smiled, gently reaching out and allowing you to place your hands in his before pulling you closer, "I'll make sure he stays out of trouble. He has a new Padawan to train, after all. But besides that..." Obi-Wan's voice dropped, his gaze growing softer as he squeezed your hands, "You know I'd do anything for you."

You nodded, listening as Qui-Gon ordered Obi-Wan to head to the ship, and with one last playful goodbye, you watched him leave, followed soon by everyone else. You stood on the pad, watching as the ship rose and left, the terrible feeling in your stomach growing with each second.

Nobody called you. For the next few days, nobody called you, and it only worsened the terrible feeling, making you nauseous as you waited patiently for the ship to arrive. You'd been told briefly by Yoda that they were returning, yet the pain on his face confirmed your thoughts. Something was wrong, and you weren't sure what, but you'd felt the pain and dread that filled you yesterday, and now Yoda was looking at you with remorse as he watched you waiting from his tower.

You couldn't maintain your focus as the ship landed, frozen still as you waited. You watched each person that exited, waiting for the two familiar faces you wanted to see so badly. Obi-Wan descended the ramp, his eyes lifting from the ground to lock with yours. Instantly tears filled your eyes, a hand flying to your mouth as Obi-Wan rushed to you.

"No..."

You collapsed into Obi-Wan's chest without a second thought, throwing your arms around him as sobs racked through your body. He attempted calming you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist and the other stroking your hair. Obi-Wan panicked slightly, feeling immediately it was all his fault. Your pain was his fault. If he'd just been slightly faster he could've saved his master, your uncle.

"Please... Obi-Wan... tell me no," You cried, burying your head into his chest as his grip tightened.

"It was a sith, the same who attacked him previously," Obi-Wan whispered, not caring about the looks anyone gave you, "I killed him. I killed the sith right after. I... I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't faster."

Nobody could remove you from Obi-Wan's side, not even Yoda, who was forced to allow you to sit in while he spoke to Obi-Wan about Anakin. You were distraught and terrified at the idea of seeing your uncle's body later. Obi-Wan comforted you, an arm around you the entire day until the ceremony rolled around.

You'd separated from Obi-Wan briefly, and when you returned to Qui-Gon's funeral, Yoda himself almost cried. You stood over Qui-Gon's body, a hand gently brushing his cheek, your mother's Jedi robe caressing your body. Just for a second, Yoda believed he was seeing your mother's spirit. You looked so identical, and the soft click of Yoda's cane startled you, forcing you away from your uncle's body.

"Determination within you, I sense. Made a decision, you have," Yoda hummed, coming to your side.

You nodded curtly, your gaze on Qui-Gon, "I wish to become a Jedi, Master Yoda."

"Agree to your request, the council does. My Padawan, you will be," Yoda nodded, not needing to speak to any other members to know there would be no defiance.

Yoda retreated to the back, watching your reaction as people filtered in, most not catching your attention until Obi-Wan walked in. You seemed to escape his gaze for a few moments, certainly because of the robe, before he rushed to your side. Yoda knew this was a potential problem, the connection the two of you held, but that was a problem for the future.

The future seemed to bring many problems for you. Your days quickly molded into becoming nothing but training. You barely spent time sleeping. Both you and Master Yoda determined to bring you up to speed. Despite everyone in the council loving your decision to become a Jedi (especially Obi-Wan), they had all disagreed with the idea of you becoming a Jedi-Knight within five short years.

However, Yoda insisted you were ready, and you passed the trials with such ease it'd seemed like you'd been training for years. Which of course, lead to many Jedi accusing you of training illegally under Qui-Gon. But it wasn't anything like that. Yoda and Obi-Wan were amazing when it came to training you. They were patient and worked with you consistently, over and over. You knew there was no way you would've become a Jedi-Knight had you not had their help.

"So?" Obi-Wan asked when you returned to your shared apartment, "Did you pass?"

Slowly, you lifted the hair on your right side to reveal that your Padawan braid was no more. He smiled widely, leaping up and pulling you into his chest. You smiled back, squeezing Obi-Wan as he spun you around gently.

You still weren't used to everything. Obi-Wan and you had decided to get an apartment together after Qui-Gon's passing, insisting that living together helped your coping. Of course, it was a two-bedroom, and you stayed in separate rooms, and just Obi-Wan's presence truly did help you.

Once Obi-Wan sat you down and pulled back, a huge smile on his face as you stared up at him. A moment passed as you struggled to get a grip on your thoughts. You gulped, eyes flicking around the room as you kept your hands linked at the back of Obi-Wan's growing hair. You liked it longer. You felt it suited him, not that you didn't like it short.

"Obi-Wan?" Your voice was small, fragile in the air as the slightly older boy stared at you.

"Yes?"

"Do you think he's proud of me?"

Obi-Wan's heart melted at the worry in your eyes, the worry that your uncle wouldn't be proud of you after everything you'd done. His hands drifted from your waist and up to cup your cheeks, pulling your face just slightly closer as he leaned down. He wanted nothing more than to wipe your ever-growing tears, but that could wait. The most important thing for Obi-Wan right now was to make sure you understood that there was no possible way for Qui-Gon to be even the slightest bit disappointed in you.

"(Y/n), I have not a single doubt that he's proud of you. He was before he passed, and I'm sure he's proud now," Obi-Wan reassured you, his smile growing as you nodded, "I know Master Qui-Gon wishes he was here with us, to see you become a Jedi Knight, but regardless he is incredibly proud."

You giggled softly, leaning forward just the slightest bit, so your nose touched Obi-Wan's, "I just worry sometimes, that maybe I'm not doing enough," You paused, gasping a quiet breath when Obi-Wan nudged your nose with his again, "Thank you Obi-Wan... I... I couldn't have done any of this without you. I'd be lost, truly."

Your gaze flicked down to your connected noses and back up to Obi-Wan's blue eyes. Yet, it felt like it was the first time you ever looked at Obi-Wan. You felt like you were a small kid again, peeking out from under your uncle's robe to see two big blue eyes looking at you with a huge smile. Blue eyes and a smile that promised to be your best friend, promised to stay by your side... 'as a loyal Jedi should'. And now, as you stared into those same eyes, you felt the urge to be so much more than what he promised.

You tilted your head up, mushing your lips against Obi-Wan's and leading the kiss as he froze in shock. Was he dreaming again? Was he about to wake up alone in his bed once more? The squeeze you gave to the back of his neck told him otherwise... that this most definitely wasn't a dream. Suddenly, he was dropping his hands from your cheeks, looping them around your waist and pulling you flush against him as he took control of the kiss.

It became a dance of lips and tongue, mumbling in an attempt to convey all the years of unsaid feelings even though no real words were being formed. It felt perfect. It felt like the force was exploding through the two of you, screaming that nothing could've been more right. There was no thought of the Jedi Code, no thought of the possibility of losing your titles. The only thought being formed was how not only your lips but your mind and soul seemed to connect at that moment together.

"I... that... we..."

"I've wanted to do that for so long," You laughed breathlessly, cutting off Obi-Wan.

He smiled, nodding in agreement as he placed a kiss on your forehead, "I adore you so much (y/n). I always have."

You mocked Obi-Wan's actions, nodding your confirmation as he placed another kiss closer to your temple now. It felt perfect. The life force flowing around the two of you was bursting with light, harmonious, and balanced perfectly. There was no need for words. You could feel one another projecting all the unsaid emotions. You were one, and suddenly a large smile broke onto your face as Obi-Wan continued to press light kisses all over your face.

You weren't worried about the possibility of losing your title. You didn't care what the Jedi Code had to say, and you certainly didn't care what the council thought. You felt complete, whole. And it was the first time you'd felt that way since losing your parents. You'd deal with the consequences later, when they made themselves truly known on their own accord and when it was time for Obi-Wan and you to make a decision.

"Do you think he's still proud of me?"

Obi-Wan chuckled, kissing your nose before pulling back, "I think he'd want to kill me."

"It was a long time coming," You teased, making Obi-Wan nod.

"That, it was."

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forever-rogue · 4 years ago

Note

Hello! Congrats on your follower milestone! 🥳🥳Can I request the prompt "Are you hitting on her for me?" with Pero Tovar? (I love the grumpy Spaniard) I'm a sucker for some hurt/comfort, but you decide where you want to take this. Thank you so much! 🥰🥰🥰🤗

Here we have just some soft, fluff! Enjoy!

Pero Tovar x Fem!Reader ; warnings: none

Pedro Characters Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

Working at the small, aging tavern wasn't an ideal situation but it was enough to pay the bills and then some. Plus free drinks every now and then. And getting to meet some interesting characters. Maybe it wasn't bad at all.

You had a lot of leeway and flexibility and if anything or anyone or anything ever got out of place, you were quick to put an end to it. Your fiery and no nonsense attitude had quickly earned you a reputation that you didn't mind.

So it was interesting when one particular man caused you to experience a bout of nerves. And hells, it wasn't even a stranger...this man had come around many times before whenever he was in the area which seemed to be an awful lot lately. Perhaps the mercenary had laid down his weapons and decided to take on a more and quiet life.

You'd catch his eye almost as soon as he'd walked in, offering up a nervous smile while he gave you a nod of acknowledgment. Was that a smile gracing his own features?

Pushing away any thoughts - innocent or more lusty - you went back to preparing drinks for the Spaniard and his companion. It was just his usual, nothing fancy, and you quickly padded over to give it to them. Both men thanked you politely and you quickly scuttled away, ready to hide behind the counter. Your cheeks and whole body felt like they were on fire. And from what? A five second interaction in which you couldn't even meet his eyes? Pathetic, you chided yourself.

Grabbing your previously discarded rag, you went back to scrubbing at the grimy counters.

The little looks and glances that were stolen between the two of you weren’t lost on either one of you.

»»————-　♡　————-««

And so, it appeared anyway, the two of you continued your little cat and mouse game for some time. And what a wickedly fun little game it was - Pero, you’d learned his name some time ago but found it too intimate to use it, even think it to yourself, would come in and spend his evenings having a drink and reading by himself or in the company of another. He’s started to make it a point to greet you eagerly, and try to hold small conversations with you, coaxing out bits and pieces of yourself. In turn you did the same to him, trying to get to know as much as possible about the former mercenary. But it had never led anywhere more than friendly conversations or lingering looks and salutations. The idea of proposing anything more seemed to knock the wind right out of your sails. Instead you continued to dance the same dance, going round and round again.

Maybe one day you’d get over him. Him - Pero Tovar - the one that had managed to make you feel small and weak. Yet somehow...you thoroughly enjoyed how he made you feel.

»»————-　♡　————-««

It was several months later when his companion, a man who’d also seen quite often, couldn’t take it anymore. But then again, there was only so much that could happen before it all gave way and snapped.

After a quiet round of drinks, the man had seemed to be having a lively discussion with Pero before shaking his head in amusement at the dark haired man. He stood up and shamelessly pointed at you, something you instantly noticed before making his way over. The look on Pero’s face was of shock and awe as he wished his friend would sit back down.

“Wait,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “are you hitting on her for me?”

“You’re seemingly never going to do it,” he insisted with a coy little shrug, “might as well be me. I’m just pushing you both in the right direction!”

“I implore you to stop,” Pero groaned as his friend just gave him a wicked smirk but continued to walk towards you. He sighed heavily, wanting to slam his head on the table, “fuck.”

“Hello,” the pleasant voice caught your ear by surprise as you jumped from behind the counter where you had been organizing some supplies. Almost stumbling over your own feet, you caught yourself before offering him a small, but nervous smile.

“Hi,” you sounded as nervous as you felt, despite your best efforts, “h-how can I help you?”

“What was your name?” he asked as you gave it to him, trying your best not to glance back over at Pero, who was very pointedly looking away, “my friend over there, Pero, he’s quite smitten with you. He’d never admit it of course, but I figured if he wasn’t going to make a move I would for him.”

“I-I-I...umm. What?” seriously you couldn’t have heard him correctly. Pero...smitten with you? Impossible, “surely you have me mistaken for someone else. I’m just...I’m just…”

“The apple of his eye?” he challenged as you felt your whole face warm up, “he has not stopped talking about you for months. I told him that if he doesn’t gather up his courage and actually speak to you, I would do it for him. So here we are.”

“Oh,” you couldn’t but grin at his words, feeling Pero’s dark eyes on you, as he tried to read your reaction from the distance, “I...I’m quite fond of him too. He’s very kind...and handsome. He’s not like the others around here…”

“He’s a Spaniard!” he joked as you both laughed, “but if it should please you, I’m sure he’d be over the moon to enjoy your company.”

“Ay, that may be true,” you grinned from ear to ear, “but however, I still have duties to attend to.”

“How about we swap?”

“What?”

“Yes,” he held out his hand for the rag you were clutching onto, “how hard can it be? You speak to him, and I’ll handle the counter. Not like it’s terribly busy here, right?”

“I...okay,” you handed over the rag and shuffled around the counter, pulling your apron off and making quick work of discarding it as well, “thank you!”

Slowly making your way over to Pero, you watched as his face shifted through a series of emotions as he tried to remain calm. But before you fully approached him, he jumped out of his seat and pulled the chair opposite him out for you. Stopping short of him, you extended your hand to him, and he easily wrapped it up in his own, giving yours a firm squeeze, “Pero.”

“Querida,” he whispered softly before pointing at the chair. You sat down, wondering what the nickname - not that you minded. It sounded lovely coming from him either way, “I’m sorry about all that. He doesn’t know when to shut up.”

“It’s no matter,” you promised softly, “he’s right...I’ve been...wanting to spend time with you too. I just didn’t think it would be something that you wanted as well.”

“Of course it is,” he admitted, almost shy as a flush of red crept into his cheeks, “I’d really like that, I just needed a push in the right direction apparently.”

“Well,” you grabbed the old mug of ale on the table and knocked it against his, “cheers to that.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

Six Months Later

“Pero,” you grinned at the tickle of mustache as he kissed along your jaw and neck, your name spilling reverently off of his lips. You couldn’t help but as his hands found purchase on your waist as you tried to give him a gentle push back, “anyone can see, silly man!”

“Let them see,” he insisted in a low, teasing voice, “what are they going to do?”

“Brand us as the sinners we are,” you reminded him as you pulled his face up to meet yours, “they’re all the same - just like us - but you know how people get.”

“Then we’ll run away,” he suggested softly, and you weren’t sure if he was joking or quite serious. He traced a hand over your features, gently resting his hand on your cheek before pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead, “we’ll go and live in sin by the sea - just the two of us.”

“What if I wanted more than living in sin?” you asked softly, biting on your lip as you tried not to seem too forward, “I want it all, with you my love.”

“I will marry you in a heartbeat if you want it,” he promised as you nodded before beaming at him, “and make the most honest woman out of you for the world to see, while remaining sinful behind closed doors.”

“Such lofty promises,” you stole a quick kiss, “but will you make good on it? Truly?”

“Of course,” he insisted with a soft nod, “you are everything, querida, and I will give you everything you want.”

“A cottage by the sea, marriage, and perhaps a babe or two?”

“Consider it done,” Pero grinned from ear to ear as he picked you up and spun you in his arms, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Pero Tovar,” you whispered softly, “more than you will ever know.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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