#first time it was in a reblog. then i posted it separately but it refused to appear in tags

[darkwing-ramblings]

The Dragon Prince Season Seven: Ezran

Hello @leavemealoneniw ! My explanation is long so I have made a separate post but shall reblog yours with a link too? Also much of this text was drawn from discussion with @fanf1cadd1ct , if you want to check that out for further elaboration. But first, your request:

 “So… why we making it seem like Ezran  went down a “Dark Path” when literally all he did was put a criminal (in Katolis eyes)  in custody? I’m confused please tell me without the Rayllum code cause I couldn’t honestly care less.”

It’s undeniably unfair asking Ezran to just forgive Runaan but not acting to imprison Runaan is in no way equivalent to the personal nature of whether forgiveness has been granted and so pretty irrelevant to the debate. Ezran doesn’t have to forgive Runaan at all: him being angry and resentful was all within his rights and shouting and being upset and walking out of the room and refusing to look at Runaan would all absolutely have been deserved. But the other four assassins involved are notably dead so in terms of consequences four out of five of the team who infiltrated the castle to kill the king have already paid with their lives not to mention Runaan himself has paid with two years of his freedom to summarise why, on principle, it was imprisoning Runaan I find to be where Ezran crossed the line. If Exran had simply banished Runaan from Katolis it would be a different story- that’s absolutely reasonable and everyone involved would be happier I imagine if Ezran let Runaan disappear half a continent away where Ezran never has to see him again (which is an extremely reasonable urge and I utterly support).

Rayla does not phrase her demands Ezran release Runaan politely but they hold water in my eyes: Runaan is essentially a prisoner of war from a kingdom Ezran has no authority over who was just released from the custody of Katolis by Katolis’ high mage and crown prince/heir to the throne (aka Callum), who additionally gave permission for Rayla to bring Runaan to Katolis as a guest. Politically it complicates Ezran’s reaction significantly as a result and this is where Zubeia herself is most relevant: Runaan is essentially military personnel under her authority who acted under her orders assassinating King Harrow. 

At the time Runaan killed Harrow Katolis was essentially at war with Xadia, the kingdoms were not allied in any way at all and open hostilities were ongoing such as concerning Harrow and Viren’s personal assassination of Avizandum, Xadia’s king, and believed lethal violence against Azymondias the unborn heir (that in reality it turns out Azymondias was kidnapped and stored in a basement for likely dark magic usage under conditions he couldn’t hatch in which would eventually kill him- it’s barely better). Harrow is the king of Katolis and Viren its high mage who killed another head of state (that he commits treason by lying to Harrow about Azymondias is completely irrelevant to the case of killing Avizandum where he committed no crimes so far as Katolis’ law was concerned)- retaliatory military violence is more of the same and not special. Runaan’s arrest and imprisonment by Katolis post-killing Harrow is absolutely legitimate: he’s a foreign soldier (an assassin is not a separate category that means anything tangible given what we’ve seen of Katolis’ actions against Xadia) who just killed their king.

And yes, it is by Katolis. Callum and Ezran have voluntarily left the castle and Amaya is away- Soren is the legitimate head of the crownsguard and Viren is the legitimate high mage of Katolis and they are two of the major authorities for Katolis left in the castle at that point post Harrow's death. Additionally, Viren is later legitimately given leadership in a peaceful transfer of power (no matter the circumstances of political stuff surrounding it) when Ezran steps down so I don't feel he's exactly divisible from the authority of Katolis. It is understandable Ezran probably doesn't feel that way, yes, but Viren very much is not practically separable from the kingdom at that point in time or following. Soren as head crownsguard with delegated authority also is particularly legitimate on behalf of the crown of Katolis. Runaan remains imprisoned by Viren and to his knowledge during his time as regent and king. The imprisonment of Runaan itself is fine as a hostile agent of a kingdom they’re essentially actively warring with- the torture isn’t and Claudia implying Runaan may be used as dark magic spell parts isn’t (Xadia’s cultural taboo on dark magic is absolutely enshrined in their laws and so it may be legal in Katolis but I still object to treating anyone that way regardless).

Zubeia being brought up to point out the hypocrisy of not holding it so tangibly against her yet holding Runaan accountable is why it matters as a discussion point.

But that’s all well and good for somewhat covering the two year time skip period where Runaan can arguably be seen as facing consequences for killing Harrow already by Katolis- which is what Ezran we see feels he should do. The other four assailants also died in the break in- during combat or slain afterwards perhap-. Harrow’s death has not gone unpunished or unaddressed under the authority of Katolis. Hence my issue with Ezran ordering Soren to arrest Runaan who is not a citizen of his kingdom and is a prisoner of war just released from Katolis’ own imprisonment by a legitimate authority of Katolis (its new high mage undoing the actions of its old one rather poetically, neatly stopping the cycle of violence on a microcosm pleasingly). Because Katolis and Xadia AREN’T AT WAR after the time skip they’re diplomatic allies- Ezran, if he wants to legitimately prosecute Runaan needs to go through Zubeia for permission who is his ally or it’s potentially an act that could justify renewed war and reopen hostilities. In other words it’s utterly irresponsible, dangerous and unjustifiable by any legal principle if Ezran intends to honour his agreements of peace.

Ezran, as king of Katolis, being on first name terms with Zubeia, the queen of Xadia, does not make the political and diplomatic implications go away. Peaceful negotiations with her for reparations arguably owed when the kingdoms are at peace once again is what he needs to open up process wise and a bag of worms it’s extremely ill-advised to open: Zubeia would be within her rights to open up equivalent cases against Katolis’ citizens and military personnel felt to have committed particular crimes she’s decided she cares to prosecute. Amaya was on the expedition to kill the magma titan and killed Xadian elves on the border and helped establish new military outposts by pushing further into new ground aka she’s not an innocent to this type of situation. It isn’t inconceivable Zubeia has solid grounds to push for Amaya’s death in such a situation (slaying the magma titan was the expedition where Avizandum defended their own border from invasion by foreign powers on behalf of one of their civilians or else sentient beings under their protection who was killed and used in a dark magic spell as parts desecrating the corpse that King Harrow/Katolis drew on to “justify” Zubeia’s mate’s death). The goodwill between Xadia and Katolis is new and fragile- Ezran’s confidence Zubeia was injured and perhaps unlikely to object to her subject’s ill treatment for actions taken during a war undertaken with her authority is no justification for Ezran risking everything he’s worked for and the safety of the people in his kingdom who are unusually vulnerable given the loss of their fortified capital has just happened because of a personal desire for vengeance. Imprisoning Runaan is a significant political failure and provocation on a practical level.

(Yes, I do have complaints about Azymondias here too- he may be young but he's prince and Runaan is his subject and frankly Zym getting involved would have made sense on a practical political level at least, particularly given Rayla is one of his citizens he knows and it's her father and Runaan did it on Zym's mother's orders, he could at least have said something passed on through Ezra. Ezran is a young king rising to the challenge Zym also ought to try and act fittingly as a prince. But he’s practically a toddler so it’s still significantly younger than Ezran’s age equivalent so there’s that.)

Additionally, it’s hypocritical of Ezran to not hold both Zubeia and Runaan equally accountable for Harrow’s death- he can’t pursue only one and have any moral high ground because as understandable as Runaan seemingly registering as the sole perpetrator is it’s utterly baseless in how royal power works. Ezran is a child but he’s also a king- having emotions is no crime but it’s extremely important what he does with them and if age was an excuse and the reason he couldn’t be expected to work past them in any scenario then the argument becomes not about Ezran’s choices and slight moral decline in the throes of anger at all but about how actually Opeli or whoever should be regent as Ezran shouldn’t hold the throne in the first place. I do wish the conflict had bubbled up concerning Zubeia and her delegated authority more though previously in the show yes as her and Ezran having such a harmonious relationship has always confused me because she factually ordered Harrow’s successful assassination- and ordered Ezran’s own too even if it was unsuccessful without fact checking what his age was at all (which we know because Rayla was on the mission and fully briefed and didn’t know that Callum wasn’t Ezran at first). It’s a failure of due diligence but even a toddler is comparatively less bad than an unhatched egg so given Ezran is named and it’s reasonably inferable he’s an unborn child it’s not hard to see why it occurred: Zubeia just didn’t care that much she wanted someone to pay for her pain and didn’t much care about the specifics of it. Zubeia actually saying something about the whole mess she created feels like the missing piece of character moments I’d personally have enjoyed being touched on a little further.

Now I personally think imprisoning Runaan (note that Soren may have done it but as it was under Ezran’s command Ezran is just as accountable) made Ezran very compelling as a character with all of his complexity and it was an extremely entertaining watch as no character is flawless and they can all make mistakes, but it was absolutely not a path taken free of darkness in terms of his decisions becoming morally murkier. It reminded me of Harrow as a character foil to Ezran wherein they both fell prey to the same impulse that Harrow denounces before his death: it's all well and good denouncing the cycle of an eye for an eye and a life for a life and a wrong for a wrong until it's your loved one who suffers it if you can’t put your money where your mouth is! Blood feuds (rarely considered morally a-okay) are a staying feature in history for a reason! Ezran paralleling Harrow oh so well was neat (whilst Zym has it seems actually for the time being moved away from Avizandum's shadow of violence more fully following Zubeia's over reformation, her wholeheartedly rejection of it is neat as it parallel's Amaya meanwhile and gives proof adults as well as children can change no matter how far down it all they may be!). I particularly loved the ensuing Rayla and Soren dynamic reprise too where they're both opposed because of principles and personal loyalties! How it worked out perfectly showed the show’s themes in the microcosm I thought!

Another character who was crucially missing at the key window of that situation imploding was Amaya. I feel like Amaya’s presence would have helped mediate a lot more than Callum’s and that her presence was sorely missed as an adult, a family member and a soldier more accustomed to situations of complexity like it to talk to Ezran and help him process it all better. Perhaps even to suggest banishment. Surely she was needed in Katolis more than in Lux Aurea even if she's newly married? Sigh, oh well, she did hug Ezran before he left at least? I still sorely missed her experience and wisdom from being an adult tied to the crown family as long as Ezran's entire lifetime and then marrying into a separate one (kudos to Janai for lucking into a spouse with both a military and political background that's dead useful in an advisor who has actual experience supporting a king and queen!). The disparity highlighted of Callum taking Harrow’s death better as he’s both older and unlike Ezran has grieved a parent he can remember (as well as one he mostly can’t/can’t at all about his birth father which their mother is the equivalent for to Ezran)

before Harrow was also pronounced in a very cool way. Callum feels like he comprehends Zubeia played a significant role in Harrow’s death and has a relationship in spite of that- Ezran it feels didn’t and may never get closure on fully now Zubeia isn’t around to face the fallout of her actions directed towards her anymore (but he had two years so honestly he did have time to seek it out if he really wanted to and he has Zym who parallels him directly and lives with the knowledge Ezran’s father killed his own father so they can support each other at least?).

The following is less about why I don’t think it’s ambiguous that Ezran failed to adhere to his own standards and principles- hence undeniably showed decline from his more established role as the ideal moral example to everyone in the show- but is relevant to the discussion in terms of aggravating and mitigating circumstances.

To me it feels notable that in the scene Ezran spots Runaan and during their stay in Katolis briefly Runaan was always unarmed- Rayla had the sense to not return his bow to him etc in that period because that would have been horribly undiplomatic. Runaan being an invited guest and unarmed when he’s arrested are ways that the disproportionate scale and immediacy of the escalation cannot be pinned on him or Rayla regarding them. Runaan on his part is very helpfully not making things worse by resisting arrest or denying his actions or adding fuel to the fire saying anything horrible and went quietly when arrested by Soren (again... the deja vu cannot have been fun, it was very handy there were no explosive PTSD reactions to chains and guards from Katolis soldier's uniforms later either, given the timeline for him is barely a week since being conscious outside of Katolis' dungeons that could have been much worse, he also didn't beg for death this time). I only imagine Rayla appearing on good terms with Callum and Ezran regardless, helped enormously in soothing worries Runaan might face "more practical uses" as Claudia put it again in any type of dark magic way as was said at his previous capture. None of it needed to be written that way but Runaan shows no signs of present hostilities and beyond breathing cannot be said to have aggravated the situation- making Ezran’s choice that much more clearly unjustified in his handling it the way he did and his own. 

Callum informing Ezran that Runaan would be arriving with Rayla beforehand would have helped, possibly, but that’s something it’s reasonable for Rayla and Runaan to assume he would do if it was necessary and not on them given they have literally just arrived in that scene. Callum hasn’t seemingly been there much longer but has met up with Soren and Ezran for a bit beforehand so had the time practically if unlikely emotional capacity. Again, I reiterate, Ezran screaming for Runaan to get out of his sight I would stand by- having Runaan dragged away by an armed guard not so much.

Callum starting with "I understand how you feel and why Ezran, it was wrong that our father was killed and I grieve him as much as you and it is a terrible tragedy that Katolis was destroyed and I am here with you and just as grieved. But it is still not Runaan's fault and I don't think you should be holding him prisoner" would have helped, but to some degree Callum DID cover most of those points so... I can see how they were all trying and it still fell apart. Callum's approach in private later if repeated a couple of times would have eventually gotten somewhere, I imagine, but not in a time frame that was fast and it’s not actually fair for Runaan to await Ezran fully processing Katolis’ destruction before he’s given his freedom back.

Rayla breaking Runaan out in the middle of the day as a MOONSHADOW ELF was absolutely hilarious, I have to say, waiting less than a day would have helped greatly but she was really just that impatient. It’s utterly terrible decision making. Without it we wouldn’t have gotten confirmation that Ezran is willing to violently recapture Runaan at potential cost to his soldier’s lives though which was another yikes when the imprisonment was for reasons I put above not one I felt was warranted, sensible or particularly justified in a legitimate capacity. After all, if “any actions taken against someone once they’ve killed a king are inherently justified and there is no disproportionate force etc and diplomacy doesn’t matter judging if it’s fine” then Harrow’s death was absolutely justified so Runaan facing consequences for it is… both shaky and exploration of why the cycle of violence continues: which Ezran’s actions endorse in spite of his words about the cycle in how own view being bad and hurtful and something to stop because continuing it isn’t right. For her part, Rayla just had to see two of her parents pass on and pick only one to save and chose Runaan, she's not seen Ethari in two years and when she did he was hurting and she was hurting and they were both grieving so she wasn't ever going to compromise her family given the poked at wounds of her own grief. If grief is a good enough defence on its own she and Ezran’s ought to cancel each other out. To her minute credit she did try to ask Ezran release Runaan before resorting to breaking Runaan out: her father the tortured ex-prisoner-of-war imprisoned by her kingdom’s allies for actions taken when their respective kingdoms were not allies and were not those of a renegade but their monarch’s will making disobeying if ordered arguably treasonous and ergo illegal. 

Ezran sits in the ruins of Katolis on his violently killed father’s burnt throne, having not fully grappled with the nature of Harrow’s death as he's young and it's hard and unlike Callum he has no memory of working through grief of the type where a parent is remembered was never going to resolve smoothly. Amaya isn’t there. Callum tries but him having a romantic relationship with Rayla doesn’t help with mediation and Ezran is just not at a point that sort of plea can get through to him yet. He’s snapping at Zym because of stress later on in the season for instance and talking about weapons against the dragons in very cold war-esque terms oblivious to Zym being a dragon and right there and looking extremely uncomfortable about it. Ezran seeing Runaan was never going to end well but the specifics of how it goes are what raised flags to me. Ezran and Rayla are friends so there’s elements of mutually feeling personally betrayed by each other over the entire mess because they wanted more support that doesn’t help. 

It’s brilliantly entertaining and a delightful powderkeg of politics and diplomacy and vengeance and grudges and grief. I have no complaints as it let the characters all be complex and none were one dimensional and loved them all the more for it!

[thujaa]

based on this post

[delewlew]

can you watch my boyfriend for me: charles leclerc x black fem! reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

request: Can you do the “watch my bf for me” with Charles and he gets nervous and call for yn to come back pretty pretty please 🙏🏾

warnings: none

author's note: this one is a little short cuz i was running on no sleep and good vibes...but it's not too short i hope! please let me know how yall like this one. comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3

never in a million years did you see yourself dating someone like charles leclerc. it wasn't that you didn't believe someone like him could find you attractive because to be quite frank, you were stunning and you knew it. the thing was you didn't picture yourself in love with someone who had the social status charles held. you'd assumed that rather than being in love with you he'd be in love with himself, instead of feeding his family he'd be more fixated on feeding his ego. however, upon meeting him for the first time you realized that those were simply preconceived notions that couldn't be further from the truth. that gentle smile and welcoming gaze wasn't a facade to draw girls like you in to become a pawn in some twisted romance game. he was genuinely a sweet and loving man who had nothing but love to give.

you met charles a year ago in baku at the azerbaijan grand prix after you'd been invited to attend because you worked as an influencer. it was your first time attending a grand prix and you got the complete hook up. it was qualifying day and you'd showed up to the paddock ready to enjoy the day in the early morning when there was a problem with security. for whatever reason the security guards were refusing to let you enter the paddock despite having proper identification. then, like an answer to your prayers a young man with ice blue eyes and the most perfect dimples came to your rescue, informing the staff that you were with him. a year later and here you were, actually with him but as a girlfriend instead of a stranger looking for help.

the social media following on all of your pages grew massively but you remained the same person you'd been before any of this happened. sure, now you were sitting in the ferrari garage every weekend, getting invited to more exclusive events, and getting spoiled by your boyfriend to where he had to lift the spending limit on his credit card. but you were still the same girl as you'd always been, posting videos that made you happy and getting paid for it.

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊

summer break had just begun for charles which meant that you had him all to yourself until he had to return back to work. this also meant you had to find a way to create content that would still garner enough attention when there weren't races for you to post about attending. you didn't like posting about your relationship in general because it felt unauthentic. your relationship wasn't the only defining thing about you and your career, it came after, so you preferred to keep work and personal life separate even if there is a little overlap between the two. but, the new tiktok trend you'd seen on your for you page was enough to convince you to break your personal rule, just this once.

you'd surprised charles with tickets to mauritius for break since he'd mentioned to you a few months ago that he'd love to go one day. so for the next week you and him were going to be spending time in paradise and you couldn't be happier. the two of you all had agreed on a 'no phones' policy, only agreeing to upload a photo dump at the end of the trip. until then you both were only going to take pictures and videos on your devices, or just 'live in the moment' and keep things exclusively to memory. however, before you both were going to turn off your access to social media, you wanted to hop on one last trend:

you were sitting on charles' lap as you gently braided the stems of small yellow flowers together. in front of you, your phone was propped your phone up against the small vase that sat at the center of the table. the video was already recording and you pretended that you were making a tutorial for how to make a flower crown. it was obvious charles was paying no attention to what you were doing by the way his head rested on shoulder with his face not visible to the camera. his hand rested at your hip with his thumb hooked through the belt loop of your jeans. he was busy looking at his phone in his free hand, going through random social media posts.

charles heard you murmur something but he wasn't paying too much attention so he assumed it was something about your flowers. he only looked up when you slipped from his hold. you simply said, "hold on- he'll show you how to do it." you handed charles the nearly finished flower chain and ran off before he could even object. your boyfriend froze awkwardly for a minute, his eyes darting from the camera to six other spots in the room as he clearly waited for you to come back. there was a soft hum he let out then he muttered, "i do not know where she went off to. but she told me to show you so...i guess i show you what to do."

silence fell over the room as charles was very focused and made attempts to demonstrate how you'd been weaving the flowers together. his cheeks flushed pink and his palms grew sweaty as he messed up three times in a row, that dimpled grin that you fell for long ago making an appearance. after the longest minute of his life he finally caved, "Ma chérie, reviens s'il te plaît, je ne peux pas faire ça." you let out a loud laugh and ran back into the room with a smile on your face as you sat back on charles' lap and he tucked his face into the back of your shoulder. [my darling come back please, i can't do this]

you examined the woven flowers and let out a soft giggle, "aw charlie you kinda made it worse." his arms wrapped around your torso holding you tighter to his lap as if he was worried you'd run off again leaving him alone. he let out a muffled reply, "then stay with me and show me how to fix it."

𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊

the end.

[tales-from-elysivm]

Can you do some headcanons or stories on arcane? Specifically Vi or Sevika if your comfortable. I was just wondering but if you don't want to then you don't have to, you have free will.

Know that you're loved!

★。／ !bark like you want it! ＼。★

pairing: vi x f!reader, sevika x f!reader (separate)

fandom: arcane

word count: 1,470

tw: canon typical swearing/slang, some light spoiler warnings, and MDNI content, mainly because we know these are some dominant ass women ;) 

THIS IS NSFW CONTENT! BE WARNED!

song title: bark like you want it by sir mix-a-lot

notes: i love my girl vi so this request was a given, thank you anon! Hope you enjoy! :D I normally didn't like Sevika as much, but I will admit, writing her head canons for this post definitely made me reconsider

! be sure to like and reblog if you enjoyed !

↳˗ˏviˎ˗ ↴

Vi is (without a doubt) very rough around the edges

She’s street-smart but she doesn’t really know what to do when it comes to actual romantic relationships, sex is easy, feelings are hard 

Her time in Stillwater makes her distrustful of people, along with her generally traumatic and difficult childhood, so it will probably take a while for her to begin to see you in a less-than-threat way

After that things are pretty smooth

You don’t really know where the split between ‘friendship’ and ‘relationship’ is, because they both include her joking, flirtatious personality ranging from skirting touches on your thighs and up your back, or teasing pet names like ‘sweetheart’, ‘cupcake’ and ‘love’

Other than that she’s very protective of you, especially if you live in Zaun

If you go out on errands she’ll always make sure she’s conveniently there at the times you like to go, able to loop an arm around your waist and guide you through the crowds

If someone is stupid enough to try and pull something on either one of you, Vi is not above beating the shit out of someone to keep them from laying a hand on you

I have a feeling that she’d confess to you accidentally in the middle of a fight

Perhaps she had been disappearing for long periods of time, and coming back bloodied and injured, refusing to tell you anything of her adventures (mainly because she doesn’t want to worry you). And eventually you pester her for a bit too long and begin a full verbal fight, where she suddenly blurts that she loves you

Now as a lover?

The teasing banter still remains, her little playful nicknames too, if anything they get worse. But she gets more confident with her touches, more deliberate. A hand in your backpocket while you’re walking, an arm around your shoulder, pinching your ass when you’re waiting outside a store, this girl has no shame

! mdni content below !

Now, i have a feeling that Vi isn’t really uneducated when it comes to sex

If anything i feel like she’s a fast learner-

The first time you actually lie together, Vi is sure to take it at your own pace, eager to please beneath a taunting smile, even if you don’t know what you like at first, she’s likely to find it quickly 

I personally don’t see Vi as owning too many sex toys - if any at all - but i think she would 100% favour using her fingers to anything else

Just the way you clench down on them, how she can use the rough calluses on the pad of her thumb on your clit to her advantage, and how deep she can pry, anything to make you scream for her

To be honest? I also 10000% expect her to try and flip you over and put you in a chokehold with her forearm tight against your throat, just adding enough delicious pressure to hitch your breath, but never enough to hurt too much

9/10

Her oral game would be fucking good too, i can tell. But she’d probably prefer to finger you or use a strap-on so she can continue to tease you with all these sinful little things she can come up with while she fucks into you

I’d say more of a biter, but she can still eat you out like a starving woman

Oral game 7/10

Aftercare is important to her, always making sure that she wasn’t too rough with you, cleaning you up, running you a bath or just lying with you to cuddle. Wants to make sure you know that you’re more important to her than some casual fling, and that she wants to ensure your happiness above anything

(Also gives you some balm for the definite bruises on your thighs and throat :D)

↳˗ˏsevikaˎ˗ ↴

Sevika is… intense

In all honesty, probably started as enemies

She probably wouldn’t want anything to do with you unless you already worked with Silco, so we could say you started in the shimmer warehouses, helping to distribute it throughout Zaun

You get your work done effectively, so Sevika overall sees you as a valuable position in the business, and keeps you around without much complaint

At some point Silco requested you deliver a hefty batch of shimmer to a more dangerous part of the Undercity, and sent Sevika with you to ensure no messes were left behind

Safe to say, you were ambushed

Despite Sevika being there to ‘protect’ you, you’re still able to hold your own, displaying proficient skill with your weapons against bandits who thought they could steal some of the shimmer vials. In the carnage, Sevika decides begrudgingly that she has respect for you

From there, it’s less of a ‘friendship’ and more of a drinking buddy situation

She doesn’t often tolerate the presence of others in her private time, so you label it as a friendship initially

She’s slightly more soft-spoken when she’s alone with you, and shares her cigars with you while she’s gambling, which often earns a strange look from her opponents as you hover over her mechanical shoulder with her cigar hanging from between your lips to see her hand, a bit too close

But Sevika lets you be without anything more than a bit of a grumble

I don’t think she’d even particularly say outright that she loves you

What happens is - instead - that you both have a drinking binge at the pub one night, after a successful night of gambling, and you both get absolutely shit-faced

While drunk she drags you back to her house and the night is filled with hazy sex, enthusiastic makeouts and early-morning cigarette smoke

You try to sneak out the next morning, expecting it to only be a one-night thing

She catches you (i headcanon that she’s a pretty light sleeper, but i suppose that could be said for most Zaunites). I don’t think she’d even say it then, just drag your ass back to bed for a (consensual) round two

After that you go to the bar together as normal, go about your business, now with the added bonus of Sevika protectively snarling at a drunk guy hitting on you by saying ‘that’s my spouse, fuck off’

(And of course, with plenty of sneaky sex between your deliveries and hurried makeouts :D)

! mdni content below !

BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELTS MFS, THIS SHIT IS KINKY

I would like to clarify, you will never top in this situation, Sevika would rather die than bottom to anyone, no matter how much she loves you

Spanking, spanking, spanking, spanking–

Hickeys, bruises, bite marks, the red tracks of her nails over your back, just anything that would leave even the most fleeting mark on your skin

That being said, would also 100% leave hickeys on places she knows you can’t hide easily

Definitely into sex toys (ball gags, bondage, strap ons and vibrators with little remotes she can keep in her pocket just in case, she especially likes to plant down one of those dildos with the suction cups and get you to ride it, all the while begging for her to just touch you, but she refuses, smoking as she watches you cry out for her)

She also likes crying-

I think she’d prefer to have you from behind, your back against her chest, ramming into you with one of her favourite straps, one hand pinching at your nipples, tweaking them between her fingers, and the other rolling tight circles on your clit, sometimes switching one out to wrap around the column of your throat

Definitely into edging on most days, and will resort to overstim if she’s happy with the work you’ve done in the day

Risky sex is definitely her thing, in her office in Silco’s base, in the warehouse on the crates of shimmer, under her desk, you on your knees to service her

She’s especially rough, and absolutely loves some degradation, and the way it makes you clench around her strap or her fingers, your eyes rolling back into your head while you scream for her

Aftercare is rarely over-the-top

She’ll cuddle you if you ask her explicitly but she prefers to share a cigar with you, or blowing smoke into your open mouth while you breathe against her bare chest

If she’s been unable to fuck you for some time, she’ll clean you up after about four or five rounds, mainly by eating you out until you end up giving her another two, but she’ll make sure you’re clean before you pass out anyway

Despite everything, Sevika will always make sure she doesn’t go to far

If anyone asks though, she will absolutely deny how she always makes sure you remember your safeword before you have sex after a makeout

thanks for the request anon!

if you have any more requests don't hesitate to ask :)

[ihavethedreamies]

Her Hero | Lee Know

Lee Minho - Stray Kids

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~5k

Pairing: Podocheong! Lee Know x Noble! AFAB! Reader

(The Podocheong were like the police of Joseon Era Korea)

Genre: Historical AU!, Joseon Era, Reader-Insert, Fluff, Smut, Some Plot, Frenemies-to-Lovers (ish)

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Swearing, Kissing, Pet Names (Sweetheart mostly), Fingering, First Times (Readers), Breeding Kink (kinda), Breathplay, A Single Spank, Masochist! Reader (surprise~!), Unprotected Sex (This is pre-birth control so…)

Summary: When a political rival of your father kidnaps you for a ransom, your father calls on the Podocheong (Police) to rescue you. An extremely handsome Bujang (Lieutenant) rescues you, but you would be loathe to admit you need (and like) a hero.

Author's Note: Here's Lee Know's!! Working on Changbin's, should be up very soon.

At the bottom I will have a guide for all the untranslated words I use, most of which are to do with the clothing they wear.

P.S. I'm having so much fun with these but I have to help watch our dog so she doesn't get on my uncle's furniture and so then I can't work on these during the day :\

Also, if any of my historical information/words are inaccurate, I apologize, I did the best with what research I could and what I know from watching too many historical K-Dramas.

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I am cross-posting this on Archive and Wattpad. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on here my name and icon are exactly the same on the other sites. Happy reading!

Your father was an important man who did important things. Unfortunately, some people didn't like the things he did or the way he did them. Namely, the Right State Minister…your father was the Left State Minister, so they should work together. No. They hated each other. Even more so because your father refused to let you marry the other Minister's son. That made the other man's son hate you…for some reason, like you had any say in the matter. You didn't even know the guy existed till your father told you he had prevented your marriage.

One day, as you waited by the entrance to your family's estate, you draped a sseugaechima over your head, waiting for your brother to join you. He was going to escort you to your friend's house, and you were getting impatient.

"Sorry!" He dashed through the courtyard, leaning down and panting to catch his breath. When he stood, the top of his gat wacked you on the chin and you flinched back.

"Sorry!" He floundered, peeling the head covering off so he could look at your annoyed face for any injury. He was such a klutz but at least he tried to make up for it.

"Let's just go please, orabeoni." You sniffed, recovering your head and you left the estate grounds. Your older brother weaved through the crowd, you held onto the belt of his hanbok to make sure you didn't get separated. There must have been some kind of big event or something going on because there were people everywhere.

"Ah, wait!" You cried out, someone bumped into you hard, and you let go of your brother.

"(Y/N)?" He turned around, his height allowing him to look over most of the crowd, but your own height hid you more. You were shoved and pushed as people whirled around you and called his name out.

"(Y/N)!" He shouted, but before you could reply, something hit you hard in the back of the head and you saw black.

~~~

When you woke up, you hurt. Your head hurt the most, but your whole body was sore. As your senses returned, you looked around in confusion. You were in a bedroom of what looked like an inn or other kind of lodging. Sitting up from the bed, you rubbed at the back of your head, looking around. Did your brother find you? If so, why did he bring you to a lodging rather than just back to your home? He also wasn't in the room. Did you pass out and a random person bring you here till you woke up? At the other side of the room, on the other side of a folding divider, you heard the door open. Unfortunately, it was not your brother that came in, you actually had no idea who it was. He was dressed all in black and his face was even covered.

"W-who are you?" You backed up on the bed, back hitting the wall, like that would really be of any use. He didn't say anything, but he pulled out a dagger and you froze in shock. Logically, you knew you could scream, but you couldn't physically get one out. He stalked forward and you closed your eyes, waiting for the worst. You squeaked when he grabbed your hair, right above where your daenggi was tied, and…cut your hair. He left as quickly as he came, the end of your hair along with the ribbon in his hand. What? Reaching around, you brought your hair over your shoulder to look at where he cut, nearly half of the length was gone.

"That-" you were madder more than anything else. Couldn't he have just undone the ribbon to use as proof? It was clear he didn't want to hurt you because you were in a nice room, not tied up, and other than a throbbing spot on the back of your head, you were unharmed.

After what felt like around an hour of sitting in the corner, contemplating what to do, you got up to look around. You weren't sure about trying to escape. Just because you were unhurt up until then didn't mean your captor would be so merciful if you tried to leave. Plus, you might get more hurt escaping, you were pretty sure you were on a second or even third floor. Just to check though…nope, the window shutters were locked from the other side it seemed. Plus, obviously, so was the door. Great. As time ticked by, you messed with the various objects of décor, trying to prevent boredom. Didn't work. All the drawers were empty and there wasn't even a baduk board for you to mess around with. After being nosy even more, you found a book wedged in the back of a dresser, between the back panel of the drawer and the piece as a whole. You weren't sure how it got back there and when you finally yanked it out, you sighed.

"Better than nothing." It was some old romance book that had been there for probably at least ten years. Sitting at a table in the room, you started the read, not really enjoying it, but it was better than nothing. More time passed and you were glad there was at least a separate room with a chamber pot, but it was getting dark. Your stomach rumbled and you wondered just how long you had been out cold because you and your brother had left the estate fairly early in the morning. When night fell, you found a lantern but had no way to light it. So, you had to sit in the dark, only the faint light of the moon flowed in through the slits of the locked shutters. Sitting back on the bed, your stomach growled again, and you sighed, laying down. You might as well pass time with sleep.

~~~

You were startled awake when there was a loud commotion outside of not just the lodging but also your room. Getting up from the bed you went to try and look through the slats of the windows but couldn't see much. There was a loud crash, and you turned around just in time to see the door break into pieces as someone kicked it open, not even bothering to try and unlock it first. It was the Podocheong! The man that came in had the uniform of a Bujang, and he sighed in relief upon seeing you. Another officer came in then, taller than the man who had kicked the door in.

"We believe we arrested all of the perpetrators, sir." He bowed slightly to the lieutenant, and he nodded, waving him off.

"Are you okay, Lady (Y/N)?" He came forward, brow furrowed in worry, looking over you. You shrunk under his gaze, embarrassed, hiding your face. His hands went to your jaw, making you look at him so he could see if your face was harmed. Your cheeks felt hot under his thumbs, he was strikingly attractive, but also familiar.

"When your brother couldn't find you, he came straight to me." He told you, letting you go, and you nodded, stepping back, looking away again. He then realized how intimate his action had been, and he bowed, apologizing.

"Are you friends with my orabeoni?"

"Yes, my lady. When we both got to your estate to look for you, your father informed us that a ransom letter had been sent for your safe return. I apologize for not getting here much sooner." You shook your head, casting a glance up at him, not sure if you were allowed to really show him your face.

"Here." He removed his jeonbok, draping it over your head so you could hide under it. Thanking him gently, you pulled it down over your more, it smelled like him, which was amazing.

"Let's get you home."

"W-what is your name?"

"Minho of the Lee clan, my lady."

~~~

When you returned home, not just your mother and brother were in tears like you expected, but your father was as well. He wasn't cold normally, but he just had better control of his emotions.

"Thank you, hyungnim." Your brother bowed to Bujang Minho, still sniffing a bit.

"Yes, we cannot begin to express our gratitude, Bujang." Your father thanked him as well and you let your mother lead you further into the estate so she could hug you. You hugged her tightly back, incredibly grateful to be home safe.

~~~

You weren't sure what Minho had asked of your father in return for rescuing you, but he seemed to be hanging around a lot. While, yes, he was mostly with your brother, you would always find him watching you if you happened to be around or passed by. One day you were sitting at the edge of your family's pond under a parasol, messing around with some embroidery work. You were not very good at it even though you enjoyed it.

"Is that supposed to be a flower?" You heard a teasing remark to your side, and you sent a glare at the owner, but, it was not your brother. Quickly, your face reddened, and you looked back down.

"U-uh yes, but as you can see, I am a little poor at this." You huffed a nervous laugh.

"Then why are you doing it?"

"I like it, just-" You yelped when you poked yourself with the needle, quickly putting the tip of your finger in your mouth. Setting the frame on the ground and putting the needle back in the cushion, you ran a finger over the messy stitching.

"What else do you like to do?" You froze when he sat down next to you, not close enough to touch you, but you weren't expecting it. He wasn't in his Podocheong uniform, the light greenish-blue fabric of his hanbok complimented him well. Looking away from where the material seemed to be struggling over his chest, you cleared your throat.

"I enjoy painting, but once again, I'm not great at it."

"Is there anything you enjoy that you are good at?" You saw him tilt his head to rest it on his fist, elbow resting on his knee, from the side of your eye.

"I…" You were a little stumped.

"N-not really." You enjoyed creative and artistic work, but you were not skilled in the field.

"That's not what your brother told me." Your eyes widened and you shot him a wary look.

"Your father isn't even here." Minho rolled his eyes, and you clenched your jaw. He was kind of getting on your nerves. Mostly because he was stupidly attractive, and you didn't like being teased to begin with.

"I haven't shot a bow in years." You whispered, still weary.

"Worried a man won't want to marry you if you can fight?"

"Archery isn't fighting, and I'm not worried about that." You stood up then, leaving the parasol jabbed in the ground, gathering up your frame and embroidery basket, walking around him to head back to your room.

"Let's go do it." He caught up to you, walking backwards, smirking as he walked ahead of you.

"No." It was too risky, you got caught last time your brother took you to his make-shift archery range.

"We can go to the Podocheong training area, no one will know. No one's there now." You had reached the stairs to get up onto the deck of your house, and you halted at the bottom. The offer was extremely tempting…

"Fine, let me get something to change into."

With a bundle of your brother's old clothes in tow, Minho helped you sneak off the estate grounds. He had at least told your brother, so no one thought you got kidnapped again. Your father didn't check on you after dark so he wouldn't know you weren't in your room. After you arrived at the training grounds, you changed in a bathing room and came out.

"You really look like your brother like that." Minho scoffed and you rolled your eyes.

"I know." You sniffed and he led you toward the back where the archery targets were set up. Without waiting for his prompt, you looked over the different bows on the rack and picked one, then grabbed a quiver as well. It felt instantly familiar, and you were glad for that, but your aim was rusty.

"You're supposed to hit the middle." Minho hummed next to you, pointing to where you had hit off to the side quite a bit.

"I know." You grit your teeth, shooting off another arrow and it missed as well. Was it the bow?

"Here." He moved to adjust your grip on the bow, and you yanked away from his hold.

"I don't need your help." You were embarrassed because you said archery was something you were actually good at.

"You did a few weeks ago." The little string of control you had snapped, the fire of your annoyance singing the ends, and you turned to him, glaring at him straight in the eye.

"What, you want me to say thank you? After my father showered you with gifts and allowed you to loiter around our estate? Fall to my knees in gratitude to my hero? Huh? If you want that go to another girl." You turned back away from him, not noticing his amused grin and you shot another arrow, hitting the red bullseye.

"What?" You nearly growled, standing at the door to your room's building, having opened it to find Minho leaning on the wooden column next to the stairs. He was relentless for the next few weeks, and you were really pissed. More so that you missed when he wouldn't show up with that stupid smirk on his pretty face. Why were you starting to like him when he just teased you all the damn time? Wasn't he your brother's friend? He constantly pestered you to go shoot with him, or go ride on his horse, or some other stuff, and you said no to almost everything. You would only eat with him if he brought snacks or a meal because who says no to food?

"I think you dropped this." You looked to see your eunjangdo dangling from his index finger.

"Give it!" You swiped at it, but he held it up and back behind him so you couldn't reach it. The silver shined in the sun, and you jumped to grab it, falling onto him when you couldn't make it.

"Give it back!" You pressed against him more, fingers barely touching the sheath of the dagger.

"Hm, no." He chuckled and you yiped when he wrapped his other arm around you, holding you to him. Your face bloomed with heat, and you could even see the red on the tip of your nose when you looked at his face, very close to yours.

"I really should stop helping you if you don't want a hero so bad." He finally relented and brought the dagger back down, but he didn't let you go. He was warm against you, and you could feel the muscle he had underneath the layers of clothes and even through your own. Your head was swimming, and you didn't even move to grab your eunjangdo from him when it was within reach.

"Have you heard the rumor about the watermill behind your house by the stream?" Instantly you knew what he was talking about.

"Y-You!" Your face's redness changed from embarrassment to rage, and you pulled away from him, slapping him hard, then turning on your heel and going back inside, the silver dagger still dangling in his grasp.

You didn't want to admit why you were crying, but you held the cushion to your chest closer, pressing your tear-stained face into the pink silk. You weren't overly fond of romance and sweet gestures, but the crassness of his suggestion hurt. Did he only want to bed you and then move on? You hoped deep inside he liked you back. And it wasn't until you cried for a good hour that you realized why you were so upset. You liked him. That’s why you wanted him to like you back.

"Dammit." You sniffed, wiping hard at your face with your sleeve.

"(Y/N)?" A soft voice called from just outside your window, only moonlight coming in through it, one small candle illuminating your room softly.

"(Y/N)? I know you're awake." You registered the owner of the voice, and you deflated further into your cushions.

"Go away." You spat at him.

"(Y/N), please?" Minho's tone was like nothing you had heard before, and it was beginning to compel you.

"No." He could probably hear the insincerity in your voice.

"(Y/N), sweetheart, please?" Your heart stopped, then sped into a gallop when he called you that. Your body seemed to act at the will of your heart and not your brain, because you got up, using a step stool, and opened the window. He smiled, genuinely, and it made you swallow hard. You wanted to cry again.

"I'm so sorry." He stepped forward, the window just the right height for him to rest his arms on the sill from where he stood on the porch. You didn't say anything, you were worried you would burst into tears if you tried.

"I said something horrible; I was just trying to tease you and I hurt you. Will you forgive me?" You hadn't heard such a sincere tone from him since he rescued you at the lodging. Your uncertain gaze met his intense one and he sighed.

"What you said awhile back made me think. You said that your father showered me with gifts for saving you? He didn't."

"But…orabeoni said you got confections and a bunch of other stuff."

"That was from him and your mother. Your father had a different gift, but I told him I didn't want it. Not without you agreeing." What?

"Huh?" He smiled at the clear confusion all over your face, the sad look falling off.

"Your father offered you as a gift. As my wife. I said yes, but I wanted to court you first. I didn't do a great job though I guess." Minho sighed and you couldn't hold back then, tears spilling over your cheeks.

"(Y/N)?" He stood up straight and you stepped closer, and he gently cupped your cheek in his hand.

"You should have just said so, you stupid idiot." You hitched a sob with each word, and he smiled, letting out a small laugh.

"Yes. I should have."

~~~

It seemed, to Minho even more than you, the wedding couldn't have been soon enough. It was also hard to hide from your family just how clingy he was. If no one was around, his arms were around you at the very least. He had you sit in his lap while you did most things, his chin on your shoulder, watching you sew or read. More than just a few times he would be standing next to you or hugging you and his hand would sneak lower than he really should have put it. The first time he got a not-very-strong hit to his chest, and he just chuckled.

You were a bit sad to move out of your family home, but you and he were given your own separate house on his father's estate, so far on the edge of the land that it felt like your own. As you stood in your new bedroom, dressed only in your sokchima, flinching at every noise as if it was your… You giggled finally thinking of him as your husband, and you hopped a little with glee. Every noise though made you hope that it was him, returning from his own bath, but most of the time it was just an animal outside, or the wind making the window shutters creak slightly.

Finally, the door to the bedroom opened and he peaked his head in, a serious look on his face.

"Are you ready, (Y/N)? Because I'm running out of restraint." The sharp look in his eyes made you shiver, but you nodded anyway. As he stalked in, the door falling shut behind him, he tugged at the goreum of his sokjeogori, and time slowed down as it fell to the floor. Your eyes skated over the skin that he revealed, and you didn't have time to react, he scooped you up in his arms and easily carried you to the bed. He pinned you to the yo, raised onto a platform and you gasped as his lips sealed over yours. His hand snuck under your head, fingers weaving through your hair at the base of your braid, pressing you even closer to him.

His other hand wandered, snaking up your leg, pushing your sokchima up higher and higher. Feeling his hands on your bare skin made you shiver despite the heat he seemed to be setting. You panted when he finally pulled his tongue out of your mouth, licking his lips like a hungry dog. His eyes though reminded you of a cat on the hunt.

"How rough can I be?" Minho's lips brushed the skin of your neck as he spoke, then his mouth attached, and he sucked hard. You huffed at the feeling; mind not able to stay on track for very long.

"Huh?" You finally managed to get out, hands balled into fists over his shoulders, your pulse seeming to thud harder where he had sucked the skin nearly raw.

"I've been waiting to have you so long, sweetheart, that I just want to breed you like a bitch in heat." The vulgarity of his words shocked you, but it somehow fueled your arousal rather than offending you.

"I want to brand you as mine." He licked a path over your throat, ending at the hickey he had left under your ear. His blunt nails dug into the flesh of your upper thigh as he pulled it up to his waist, his hand sliding down to cup your rear.

"M-Minho-!" You couldn't help but throw your head back with an airy moan as he rolled his hips against yours, his hard cock pressing to your bare core through his pants.

"Tell me now, so I can slow down." You could hear the strain in his voice, his breathing was hard too.

"Don't." So, he didn't. He didn't hesitate either and you squeaked when he rolled you over underneath him, landing on your stomach. Instead of untying your sokchima like a civilized person, he tore the straps at the seams, then yanked the white garment from you and tossed it to the side, leaving you completely naked. Your skin immediately rose into goosebumps from the sudden chill, but the heat of his bare chest pressing to your back instantly took over.

"You're just perfect." He hummed, nearly laying completely on top of you, hard cock nestled in the crest of your butt. Minho's arm snuck under you, sliding up to nestle between your breasts, his hand gripping your jaw. You whimpered at the restraining feeling even though it was nowhere close to tight, and you felt his dick twitch at the noise. His free hand also snuck underneath you, holding himself up with pure core strength, only the elbow of the arm holding you supporting him. As his fingertips ran over your lower stomach you sighed, the muscles twitching at the stimulation. He hummed and you recognized the noise that he always made when he smirked, and your body jerked when his fingers finally met your cunt.

"So wet already, sweetheart." His nose nuzzled behind your ear, the hand at your jaw loosening even further but sliding down just a bit to cup your throat. Quickly, his index finger brushed over your clit, and you whined, and he chuckled, feeling the vibration at his palm.

"M-Minho…" Your head was swimming, and you let out a choking noise when he buried a finger into you.

"Don't worry sweetheart, I'll loosen your tight cunt enough to take my cock." While Minho wasn't always outstandingly proper with you, his crass words still surprised you some. They went straight to your core though, and he felt your gummy walls spasm around the single digit. Slowly, he pumped his finger till you relaxed, the slight sting from the entrance dissipating. You had never even used your own fingers and based off what you felt nestled into your backside, you did need to get prepped. Whether it was on purpose or not, when Minho finally added a second finger, his hand at your throat tightened just enough to put slight pressure on your windpipe. Your cunt spasmed again, harder, and your heart sped up as well, wondering why the sensation excited you so much.

"Oh?" He chuckled, speeding up his hand at your pussy, palm pressing to your throat a bit harder. His palm pressed at your clit and a strong pulse hit your core, and it was getting stronger and stronger.

"W-wait, Minho!" You gasped, having an idea that you were close even if you had never felt it. The intensity startled you a bit.

"Go ahead, (Y/N), fall apart." The hand at your throat pressed enough to make your vision swim and you keened out a moan as you came. He huffed at the squeeze on his fingers, but helped you ride the high out, kissing behind your ear as he did. When he unwrapped his arms from around you, you fell limp on the bedding, still trying to catch your breath. Swallowing a few times to ease the slight soreness of your throat, you heard him shuffle. You, however, had no time to look behind you at him before his hands were on your hips, pulling them up, forcing your butt up in the air.

"What are you-?"

"I said I wanted to breed you like a bitch in heat." Oh, he meant it literally. Unfortunately for you, he hadn't given you the chance to see him bare, because you were not prepared for when he brought the head of his cock to your entrance.

"Breathe, sweetheart." His hands wrapped around your waist, thumbs rubbing circles into the skin of your back, and you focused on measured breaths as the fat head of his dick finally started to press in. Stinging heat seared through you from your core out as he entered, and you couldn't tell what it felt like. Somehow it hurt like hell but also felt so good, so much so you thought you might pass out. You fisted the bedding below you, gasping for air as he slid in, the slick of your arousal aiding the entrance.

"Your cunt's hugging my cock so good~" Minho sighed, the noise turning into a groan as he buried even further. How much further would he go? The searing heat was so deep you wondered if he would stop anytime soon.

"Just a bit…" He chuckled when he finally bottomed out, the tip pressing snugly to the base of your womb. Tears had sprung to your eyes, your whole face felt hot, and you panted hard, trying to get used to the odd feeling. Yes, it hurt, but it felt so much better than you thought it would.

"Tell em when you're ready, my love." He leaned over you again, kissing your shoulder gently and petting your hair.

"Go." You answered almost immediately, and his soft touches halted.

"Love, are you sure?"

"Fuck, please!" You weren't sure why you needed him to start already, logic told you it would hurt, but you craved it. It felt so dirty to like the burn so much, but you couldn't help it.

"Yeah?"

"Please!" Your breath was forced from your lungs when he rolled his hips, pulling out halfway before snapping back into you, hard. He felt your core pulse around him, a rush of your arousal soaking his cock, and he grinned like a madman.

"So fucking perfect." He immediately began a brutal pace, but still held back some, only pulling out half before driving his cock back home, battering your womb.

"W-wait, oh! Ah! Fuck!" The same waves of pleasure were already cresting, so much stronger than before and Minho relished in feeling the clench of your gummy walls around his cock instead of his fingers.

"So good." He mumbled to himself, licking his lips and as you got closer…

"Fuck!" You squealed when his hand came down on your ass, leaving a red print on your skin and you came again. He gasped a laugh as your arousal drenched his cock and his groin, leaving a shining trail down both your thighs. Minho laughed at your whine of disapproval when he pulled out, but it turned to a gasp as he flipped you over. He threw one of your legs over his shoulder, ankle at his ear, holding the other to his side, and he filled you again. Your vision spotted from the stinging pleasure the overstimulation was causing you, but you focused on his gorgeous face. He had that cocky smirk on his face, sweat beading down from his forehead and you whimpered at the sight. With what little strength you had, you propped yourself up to see where he was splitting you open. Whether it was the sight or his next thrust, you fell back limp and fisted the sheets as he fucked you like a rabbit. His shallow movements were even harder than before, and your eyes rolled back, back arching as your next orgasm rose.

"Oh, what a good girl, cum for me, love." Minho took your hands in his, your legs barely wrapping around him to hold on. His fingers wove through yours, lips meeting once more as his pace stuttered. He must have felt your moan against his tongue as you came once more, the tight vice of your cunt spurred him over the edge as well. Your core burned even hotter as his cum filled you to the point where it spilled from you, mixing with your own. Your body went limp, and Minho hummed, kissing your forehead.

"I love you." He left little pecks all over your face and you giggled sleepily.

"I love you, too. I'm glad you saved me that day."

"No, (Y/N), I think you saved me."

Sseugaechima - this is the extra-skirt looking garment women would wear over their heads. Gat - this is the hat that noblemen would wear, more specifically the ones that were black and made of mesh. Orabeoni - more archaic/historical word for older brother to a girl. Hanbok - traditional/historical clothing, most people think of women's dresses, but men's clothes were called this as well. Daenggi - the ribbon that was tied around a unmarried girl's braid. Baduk - Korean word for the Chinese game of Go. Podocheong - essentially the Joseon era police. Bujang - a Lieutenant-level position in the Podocheong. Jeonbok - kind of like a long vest worn over a hanbok. Hyungnim - a more commonly used term historically for a man to an older brother or friend. Eunjangdo - a silver dagger that many women wore as an accessory, mostly nobles. Sokchima - basically a dress/skirt like under-garment. Goreum - the ties that fastened the top of a hanbok. Sokjeogori - a shirt worn as an undergarment. Yo - a Korean floor mattress.

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[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU pt 44

part 1 | part 43 | ao3

cw: recreational drinking

“You’re just…” Robin looks at him sideways, her face doing something quivery and weird that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be sympathetic concern but mostly looks like she stubbed her toe right after smelling microwaved fish. “You’re sure it’s not too soon?” 

It is. 

It definitely is too soon.

Steve’s pleasantly buzzed at a New Year’s Eve party — some random rich kid’s house, loitering in the space between the living room and kitchen so he and Robin can properly people watch (see also: be hugely judgmental bitches about the fashion sense of the girls on the dance floor and the sloppy form of the guys doing keg stands on the back deck) — and Steve just opened his fat, drunk mouth and casually admitted to being in love with Eddie. 

Eddie, the guy who hated him for years. The guy who tried to knife him the first time they interacted as neighbors. 

The guy whose silhouette has started to fill the passenger seat in Steve's Winnebago dreams. 

Eddie’s here, but he’s not here; probably posted up somewhere in the basement so he can deal to the stoners and the horny kids playing Spin the Bottle, and Steve— 

Steve knows he falls too fast. Always has, but especially now. Steve fell for Eddie like a gunshot going off: a deafening bang, gurgling fish sounds, blood all over the floor. He kinda thinks he couldn’t help it. Kinda thinks he’d do it again. 

And how could he not, when Eddie smiles at him like that? When he takes him apart so sweetly with his words, his lips, his tongue? When he dragged Steve by the hand into the back pew of a midnight mass on Christmas Eve, giggling about how he was shocked his satanic worship hadn’t set the bench aflame? 

Yeah. 

Steve totally understood why Jesus got up on that cross. 

“Oh, my god,” Robin rolls her eyes with a strangled huff. “Are you seriously just—? You’re fucking hopeless.” 

Yeah, he is, and yes, he is. “No,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest and trying not to feel like a defiant kid who got caught lying to his mother, because yeah, he totally is spacing out into lovesick La La Land while being actively accused of spending too much time there lately. “I’m not fucking hopeless, and it’s not too soon.”

Robin gapes at him like 'are you kidding me right now?' “Steve!”

“Robin!” he answers, mimicking her tone. Wow. Vodka makes him petulant. 

It makes Robin stubborn as hell. She juts her chin out and hollers over the music, gesturing so aggressively she almost spills her drink, “Admit that it’s too soon!”

“It isn’t!” Steve shouts back; digs his heels in and refuses to budge, never mind the fact that it’s only been, like, three weeks since Eddie fingered him for the first time oh, god, don’t think about Eddie’s fingers right now.

They stare at each other for a second, Robin’s nostrils flaring with the words she so clearly wants to yell at him, her breaths coming hot and harsh, and then, with a long sigh, her shoulders deflate. Her chin comes down. She bites her lip again, teeth turning the skin white as her eyes go big and sad. Worried. She's worried for him because she loved him first. 

Steve smiles at her, a quick, closed-lip thing that feels more like shrugging with his mouth, and he leans into her space; pats her cheek and thumbs her chin until she stomps chomping on her lip.

“You’re gonna get it all chapped,” he says in a hush, hoping her Steve translator is still intact after a couple drinks. Hopes she knows that he’s really saying ‘I hear you’ and ‘I love you, too; I love that you care’ because they're at a party and god does he not feel like saying sappy friendship shit out loud. 

Robin’s eyes get misty. Just for a second — message received; copy that — and she clears her throat and shakes it off. Points at something over Steve’s shoulder and drags him to the other side of the room.

—

part 45

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[imsofuckinggayforwomen]

SANEMI HEAD CANONS

(as determined in the previous poll)

Hello everyone! Thanks so much for all of the 300+ votes I got on that poll, that’s like crazy 😦 rengoku and sanemi tied so we’re just gonna write for both! Rengoku’s will be in a separate post because imma be shitfaced when I’m done with this.

These head canons will involve sfw and nsfw, so if you are a minor please do not read past the part labeled NSFW

Warnings: Smut, Fem reader

(MINORS DO NOT CONTINUE AFTER THE NSFW LABEL I AM SLASH SRS)

Sanemi

Sfw

He’s a cold guy, giving out glares to anyone that looks in his direction.

But for you, his eyes briefly soften.

He refuses to admit it, but he truly turns into mush when you’re around.

Always keeps a hand on one of your body parts, hand, thigh, waist. He’s extremely protective, especially after losing the majority of his loved ones. He swears to protect you forever. Poor genya

Shows more affection when the two of you are alone, not wanting his coworkers to see him all lovey dovey. Only you get to see that

He’s like one of those guys that talk to you in a baby voice asking for attention but then the moment someone walks into the room his voice drops like 5 octaves.

Literally will not let you get out of bed earlier than him. Like his arms anchor you to the bed.

If you’re also a hashira, he makes sure that you both are always assigned together on missions. He knows you are capable enough to take care of yourself, but he can’t help the fear of not being there when you need him.

Trains with you but absolutely refuses to actually spar you. He couldn’t bare the thought of accidentally hurting you.

If he’s called out on his love for you in public he literally turns into a tomato.

NSFW

Oh boy, this guy is insane

He wants to love and cherish your beautiful body but he can’t help but feel the need to claim you

Once you give him the go ahead, he quite literally pounces on you.

Eats you out for hours, it’s basically impossible to pry him off.

Will start out by teasing you, giving small kitten licks to your wetness. He loves the frustrated face you make when he doesn’t give you what you want.

Cant tease forever, he yearns to see you throbbing with pleasure.

When he starts sucking your clit, you almost double over.

This man has a goal and he IS going to get it.

doesn’t even think about his own needs until his face and fingers are drenched in your arousal.

When he finally gets to the real shit, he starts extremely slow. Not wanting to hurt you.

He gives you time to adjust before carefully thrusting into you

However, when pleased mewls began to erupt from your mouth, he simply cannot hold back any longer

Bro changes his pace entirely, gripping onto your thighs and pulling his hips all the way back.

At first, you’re confused, but then he slams himself back into you.

Your breath literally disappears from your lungs as he feverishly thrusts into you.

Please pull his hair

He Bites and sucks on your neck whilst your fingers curl into his white locks.

Reaches his free hand down to passionately rub your clit, quite different from his hips roughly knocking into yours.

When you begin to reach your climax, he nearly finishes from the sight of you.

As your back arches in pleasure, his fingers quicken and his hips continue their pace.

When your orgasm hits, his does as well. The both of you moaning and riding out your high’s together.

immediately gets you water and makes sure you are okay.

Aftercare 100000%

Runs a nice bath and washes your hair for you

don’t comment on his flushed face.

If you fall asleep in the bath, he’ll dry you off and carry you to bed.

I hope you guys liked this!! I’m going to continue rengoku’s part in a separate post, I’ll probably write it later tonight after I shower and do my 1000 step skin care routine.

Comments, likes, reblogs are all appreciated!!

[typing-catastrophe]

mabel and dipper's life after getting back home (random headcanons)

mabel forces dipper into improving his hygiene because she doesn't want him to be bullied in school for it

the twins make sure they get into the same classes/courses every year because they can't bear to spend that time apart

dipper spends his time in class writing a journal of his own, but passes every class with the highest grade anyway (and ford is very proud of him)

mabel spends classes doodling and struggles sometimes, but dipper is always there to help her out with anything she doesn't understand

both dipper's writing and mabel's drawings are mainly their summer adventures at first

after that dipper indulges in findings and theories of their own

both twins develop insomnia after weirdmageddon and sneak out quite frequently

they don't necessarily do anything they are forbidden from, sometimes they just go and sit somewhere like they did on the roof of the shack

it's not long after they get back from gravity falls that their parents announce they're getting a divorce and actually spend the summertime living separately

dipper regularly turns his wall into a huge 'clue board', with the red string and all (he uses every occasion to do that, even if it's not a mystery or even necessary at all)

both fill their room with lots of trinkets; mabel starts collecting figurines, keychains and buttons (and keeps collecting stickers), dipper collects enamel pins

both acquired a set of certain skills from their time in gravity falls, that come in quite handy sometimes not to say they sneak and break into some places frequently, but... ya'know

mabel starts gambling with other students and nobody knows how and when she got so good at it. she never uses her powers for evil but she will play robin hood (the money of bullies will end up in the hands of poorer kids with no lunch money)

anytime someone mentions unicorns or how mabel used to love them, she will wrinkle her nose and refuses to talk about them

dipper will often have moments where he thinks he sees someone from gravity falls and almost calls out for them, when he realises that it is someone else. it gets particularly bad when an older ginger student starts at their school

he also sometimes thinks he hears bill and gets a little paranoid, the only one who can help him not spiralling into a panic attack on a bad day is mabel

mabel refuses to do arts and crafts with triangles fro a while, until she decides bill won't ruin her favourite activities and the spite helps her not being too paranoid about it

-------------------------------------------------- thank you for reading <3 reblogs are appreciated

a/n: i could go on for a while longer, but i think i'll stop here and put more into another post; also i need to articulate them better than i am capable rn so stay tuned if you want to see more of these as well as for other characters and gf in general :D (i already have more on the way)

[sgiandubh]

From barf bag to pity party

The whole 'Kick in the hornets' nest' involuntary series was started by this Anon, received by the de facto leader of the Disgruntled Tumblrettes yesterday evening (in Europe):

The next morning, another Anon chimed in, on the same page, with what prompted the First Kick: S has a child with 'a woman', but God forbid, not with C 🤣🤣🤣.

And then, one of their group felt the need (then the clearly irritated urge) to come back and comment on the above Anon. No less than 5 (five!) long and plethoric comments were written, prompting my Second and Third Kicks - as you all know, the woman practically begged for them.

I feel it's time to show some mercy and draw the line here.

This blog is read (and trusted) by many. Comments were received. Very interesting, matter-of-fact submissions, to say the least. You know: FACTS (🤣🤣🤣). People who have rich and full and loving lives, people who travel. People who don't even agree on many things, yet spontaneously concurred on what things very probably looked like, on that Palm Sunday morning.

Exhibit 1: Mom and Traveler #1 (a mom I am not - but I was a child, unbelievable as it might sound, and I absolutely confirm every single bit of it)

I am not yet ridden with dementia, and I remember very well waking everyone up at ungodly hours and refusing my mandatory afternoon siesta (a very bad habit we have in Southern Europe). I wish I would still have that same insane energy now. I also wish I would have kept my 3 year old fashion model food quirks - but that is another story.

However, I am a dog slave (not owner) and as such, I am taking Baby out for his short (but excruciating) morning routine at 7:30 AM. Come rain or shine. Beg him to finish his business with grace and dignity. He never listens. Labs are a charming, addictive handful and my Greek boy is no exception:

Exhibit 2: Mom and Traveler #2. Who happened to be in GLA on Palm Sunday, March 24, 2024 (for the thick people at the back!):

All that trip was abundantly documented on her own page. I am reasonably sure she might be reblogging this with her own pics from that day.

And now, for the real questions at stake:

Why make such an unbelievable fuss over an Anon with no pic, that I was reluctant to publish myself?

Why have a cosmic meltdown, in public nonetheless, if you do think this is such a pile of unbelievable nonsense crap? (*imagine the freakout in DMs, if this made the headlines!)

How many times has/have S (or C, or SC) been seen by Antis in GLA in similar postures, without a word being uttered in public?

Why would such an occurrence be An Event, outside of this (help me, I have no words) fandom?

Why insist with your crappy arguments, when it is plain to see you have got all your facts dreadfully wrong?

Why mention 'central Glasgow', when it is public lore (and included in Waypoints!) that S does not live there anymore? (* I blacked out the exact reference, which makes total sense - the least thing I would like to see happening is freaks like you stalking them)

One last time, you insist - comments 6 and 7 (wow, girl!):

First comment is a lie and if you read my Anon (and you know you all did and discussed it to oblivion) you'll have also read this:

Which part of 'he didn't approach' you don't get, in plain English, madam? I am lousy at drawing, but hey - for the cause (open in separate page, questionable humor included):

Second comment, I won't even get into it. God only knows what the hell you meant. I am Romanian and we tend to be a very sarcastic bunch - especially the Southerners.

You posted those at about 2:45 AM, local time (if you are, indeed, a Scot). That's 4:45 AM my time.

I am a lifelong sufferer of insomnia. You, madam, you are mad wae it, as they say in Glasgow.

Don't drink and post, seriously. It makes for a very #sorry hangover show.

And with this, I am done with you. All of you, in that corner. You showed me more than enough. You know there is substance to that Anon, despite the lack of a picture - hence the collective freakout.

From barf bag to pity party. Who knew?

[Later edit:] re-reading the sixth comment, I think she wants to imply it was the 'other child' - I was literally blind with sleep when I first saw it. Well, there is no evidence of whatever she is trying to explain (has she contacted The Climber? between midnight and 2 AM, local time?). Also, a 5 year old child is not a toddler anymore: kids are considered toddlers up to 3, only. That boy, as we all know (and I am sorry we do), has dark hair - where is the resemblance Anon noticed?

Desperate, grasping at straws, lying through her teeth and mad wae it, all the way.

@pamalissou, thanks for bringing us a third mom's POV in your reblog.

[writefightandflightclub]

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

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

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

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. 

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

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

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

AND I have nothing against Philadelphia!

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

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

Many years earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s been worse places, trust me.”

“Yeah. Your fucking pocket?” 

“No shithead, I won it from Catfish.”

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

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

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

“I really need to meet that guy.” 

“Sweetie, you’ve met him.” 

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

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

“You just don’t remember him.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Soldiers; not friends. 

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

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

Friends; not lovers. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Focus, pendejo. You need something. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well… That isn’t a lie. Not exactly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy. He’s glad to be proven wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

…realises he is having fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll follow you anywhere. 

***

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

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

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

“Sure, lady. Then what’s your name?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

“Great. Thank you. I mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does though. Wants to be a little bolder. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.” 

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

“Thank you, Sir.”

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

“Santiago. And hey, congratulations.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yessir.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye. Here’s to that.” 

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

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

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

“Can I give you some advice?” 

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

“Marry her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Colin has this all wrong. 

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

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

Isn’t that the same thing?

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

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

You. 

You. 

You.

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

There’s nothing here. 

Nothing with you. 

Nothing he could have with you. No way. 

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

“No. ‘M good. Fine,” he says tightly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You a’ways do, asshat.” 

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

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

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

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

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

Even? 

It could never get close to even. 

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

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

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

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

It scares him.

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

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

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

“Hey. Hey,” he soothes. “What is it?”

”I’m not sad, idiot.”

”No?”

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

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

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Perfect.” 

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

***

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

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

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

“Ew. I need a fucking shower.” 

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

“I stink.” 

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

“Mmm hmm. Okay then.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m only a man, Princesa.”

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

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

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

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

“Feel like staying awake a little longer?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well? Do you think he’d be down?”  

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

You scoff. “What? For real?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fucking condom?”

“Ay, dios. Just open it, would you?” 

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

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

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

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

“But I can’t-“

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

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

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

“But won’t your mom-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen. Thank you.” 

“It’s the least I could do.“

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

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

“Yeah. Exhausted.” 

“Let’s lie down then, alright?” 

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm.”

“Do you…?” 

“Do I what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask, anyway?” 

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

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

“Pfft. I give ‘em a month.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s only what you’re due.” 

“Oh?! A thorough ass-kissing?” 

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

You snicker chaotically. “Huh. Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

“Jesus. You’re demanding, Princesa.”

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

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

“Thank you.” 

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

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

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

“She gives me everything

And tenderly…” 

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

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

“No. No, please.” 

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

“The kiss my lover brings,

She brings to me-ee,

And I love her.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bright are the stars that shine,

Dark is the sky. 

I know this love of mine,

Will never die.”

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

“And I love her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day he met you.

The day he almost lost you. 

The day he realised he was in love with you. 

And the day he started running from that.

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

The fourth will be tomorrow. 

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

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

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

[starstruckfoxvoid]

(OK like this is my first time ever posting on tumbler I'd usual just reblog but I had hearcanons of Logan Howlett x Middle age reader and I often see people complain about not seeing it enough ao here's my headcanons!)

Logan howlett x G/N reader

GN Y/N is mid 30s to late 40s

Logan meets Y/N at some random grocery store whiek he gets stuff for him and wade(They are roommates here lol). There was only one box of the good ceral left and Y/N refused to give it to good old logan which got him slightly annoyed but interested in thus feisty middle age person.

Logan and Y/N are that saying "Right place wrong time" because anytime they even slightly saw each other ot was on sight at trying to pin blame at each other for "stalking" or "being annoying"

Wade sometimes just so happens to witness the enviable mess hap of a greeting. So he starts making plans of getting them together cause even he's over their stupid bickering when the two don't even know one another.

Y/N ends up set up on a blind ul by her friend

Wade ao happens to also set up logan for a blind date.

The two end up on said blind date and have no choice, but to speak to each other normally. And actually. They both seemed pleasant around each other.

By night time Logan and Y/N go there separate ways feeling different about each other

Both now have each phone number and saved under certain nicknames

Will their friendship be more?

(Ahh I hope you guys like this please don't be too judge full it's my first time ever posting on tumbler and doing headcanons)

[headfullof-ideas]

All right, I finished it much sooner than I expected, but I finished that drawing, and decided to post it as a separate post instead of yet another reblog to the original post, because I didn’t feel like it. So here I introduce and give a general description of the teenage cast of characters that originate from Berk, even if some of them no longer reside there. This may get a little long-ish

From left to right, we have Camicazi, Dogsbreath, Astrid, and Wartihog, the Berk residing teenagers. These kids are determined to find and bring their former peers back to Berk to face trial for what they’ve done, or something along those lines, they’re not sure what the ‘punishment’ beyond exile is for dragon riding. (Neither is anyone else) And the riders have already been exiled. But they keep messing with Berk, and the surrounding islands and tribes, bringing chaos and destruction practically everywhere they go, so they need to capture them to make them stop! They haven’t exactly told Chief Stoick yet though, he seems a bit indifferent or unsure how to handle the situation at hand.

Camicazi is a self-proclaimed thief, but her sticky finger tendencies aren’t as great as she boasts them to be. They really only come into some effect when she meets someone who doesn’t know her, which is unfortunately not a single person on Berk, who know to protect their belongings around her by now. She’s crazy, and wild, unruly with a thirst for injury and pain on others that can be slightly concerning at times. She’s a lot of bark, and not a lot of bite, except for when she does bite. She tends to be over dramatic about the wrong thing, and lies to save her own skin whenever she appears to be in the slightest amount of trouble. Camicazi can’t stand losing in anyway shape or form, and hates when someone is better at something then she is, even if she’s never done that thing once in her life.

Dogsbreath is Spitelout’s eldest son, Snotlouts older brother. With Stoicks wife, Valka, getting scooped up by a dragon before they ever had a child, and Stoick refusing to remarry, the title of Heir went to the next in line, his eldest nephew. Dogsbreath is the pinnacle of Vikingness to most of the other adults on Berk; big, beefy, a good fighter, ready to fight their enemies and the dragons with endless energy. Unfortunately, Dogsbreath isn’t the greatest with leadership. He’s arrogant, boarheaded, and the biggest bully to any of the kids who are even slightly not Vikingly in his eyes, which has most of the other teenagers standing on tiptoes around him so as not to get dragged in an alley and beaten. Dogsbreaths head is filled with reassurances that he will be Chief someday, throwing that weight around to anyone who tries to discipline him, with Stoick rapidly growing frustrated with Dogsbreath lack of care for the finer details of being Chief. Dogsbreath is only in it for the glory and fame, and none of the responsibility.

Astrid does not go with the riders in this story. With Hiccup non-existent, that relationship never comes to be, and neither does that eye-opening flight on a Night Fury’s back. Astrid is not fond of Ant, Hiccups stand-in, in this story, and is actually quite infuriated and annoyed by him. She’s not close to any of the other kids either, determined to be the best their is, and knock Dogsbreath off his high horse a little bit, especially since he keeps insisiting that they’re meant to be, as Heir to Berk, and Berks toughest Viking maiden. She hates him, but not as much as the traitorous riders, who she is determined to capture herself, bringing down their dragons as well. Astrid has the tiniest flicker of doubts here and there though, and eventually becomes the rider to a Deadly Nadder she names Stormfly, becoming a part of Berks first troupe of Dragon Riders. Don’t worry Astrid fans, Astrid gets there and gets Stormfly and becomes a dragon rider…eventually.

Wartihog is the village flirt and playboy, or as much of a playboy as a sixteen year old with no game can be, anyways. He’s a smooth-talking, yet easily distracted guy, who thinks he’s the coolest guy on Berk. Well, second to Dogsbreath anyways, who’d bash him if he thought Wartihog thought he was better. Wartihog assumes that all the ladies love him, and thinks he’s going to be some hotshot bachelor in the future, with rippling muscles and scars from all the dragons he’s brought down, further gaining the ladies affections. He’s incredibly vain, and loves looking at his own reflection, and refuses a helmet entirely so it doesn’t crush his ‘killer’ hair. Wartihog has a tendency of occasionally going after girls who are a few years younger than him, either because too many girls rejected him, their sister rejected him, or they have some defining trait he thinks is exotic, like hair or eye color. He’s a bit of a creep in that regards, but is pretty easily distracted by either food or another girl, or a girls pissed off parent.

Next up are the infamous exiled dragon riders. On the right are some pretty familiar characters, Snotlout, the twins, and Fishlegs, but on the left is Ant No-Name, and an OC named Kari. After Ant was exiled, Berk didn’t immediately send him away, too preoccupied scrambling to assemble the ships needed to go after the nest now that they knew how to. Which meant Ant was able to show the other, eager, teenagers the basics of dragon riding (hold on for dear life and don’t let go) before they went off to deal with the nest themselves. Ever since then, they’ve been in exile, trying to avoid the numerous enemies they’ve found themselves with.

Ant is called No-Name, because no one knows who his family is. No one’s even really sure how he got to the Archipelago to begin with, just how he got to Berk. His skin tone indicates his family is from far beyond the Archipelagos waters, and being the only person with dark skin in a predominantly white region of the world has caused some self-esteem issues to develop for Ant, which aren’t helped by most everyone else’s reactions to him either. He was the apprentice to Berks resident blacksmith, Gobber the Belch, for practically all twelve years of his life, until he bonded with a Night Fury he accidentally shot and tracked down in the woods, affectionately named Toothless. (Toothless is still named Toothless. I firmly believe that Ant imma name this bear Barry and this alligator Snappy Nekton would come to the same conclusion that Hiccup did when it comes to naming the dragon) Ant never wanted to be a dragon killer, firmly happy with being in the smithy and out of the spotlight, but inevitably was dragged into the spotlight when Toothless was revealed to the rest of the tribe, and he was exiled. Ant is a bit OOC at the beginning, because he’s lived a very different life. He’s quiet, a bit shy, extremely anxious, and sometimes goes mute when faced with something he’s afraid to mess up, or someone with a very thin trigger. His bangs aren’t up yet either, because he hasn’t had ‘character development’ yet (Toothless licked his face and his hair got stuck, lol(kidding)). He gets there though, with some friends and building of self-confidence.

Kari Hasselson (Harper typically, but that’s not a very Vikingy last name) is the second youngest of the initiates, about a year older than Ant himself. She’s got a bit of a temper, especially with Wartihog, and doesn’t have many friends either. Her relationship with her family isn’t…great, but she and Ant get to know each other better during Dragon Training, and she’s one of the first kids to reach out to learn about riding dragons. For all that she’s a spicy angry kitten as a child, Kari mellows out as she gets older, and I’m saying this now, she’s meant to eventually get with Ant. A LONG eventually. It takes years of friendship before they even get there, like, late RTTE age. They’re thirteen and twelve right now, no romantic shippy feels or anything like that happens right now, they’re two chaotic kids trying to become friends at the start of the story, when these drawings take place. They bond over being the youngest initiates through Gobbers crazy teaching methods, and then trying not to be mildly babied by the older riders when they’re in exile, planning tweenage revenge on the others as they go. Nothing happens at first. Kari is also not meant to be JUST Ant romantic interest, when I first made her, it was literally because I thought that boy needed some friends that weren’t fish, so I made him some. Kari just ended up also later filling the romantic role later as well, after I’d made sure she was a developed, rounded character with her own interests and life outside of being the love interest. She’s like an angry kitten.

As for the other, more familiar characters, each of the other riders had their own reasons for leaving. Fishlegs was stuck in the middle of a huge family, where he was swept under the rug, and didn’t want to kill dragons. The twins had an absent father, with a slightly overbearing mother, and an urge to go out and see the world, also leaping at the chance for chaos without an adult telling them no. Snotlout was sick of all his attempts at getting his dad’s attention being ignored in favor of his older brother, wanting to prove that he could do something Dogsbreath could never do. They’re a few years older than Ant and Kari, and with no Berk to fall back to, the kids are all scrambling to survive the Arhipelagos harsh weather and harsher inhabitants.

This is the drawing in its entirety. I’m thinking of maybe drawing the others characters, or at least the ones that are wildly different from their film counterparts. Maybe the Nektons and assorted characters from The Deep, to show what they’re like in this universe. I probably will

[marbled-magician]

‼️ //🥀OOC🥀// ‼️

Hey guys, I hope all is well!..

Recently, I’ve been talking to some admins, and they expressed an oddly similar discomforting/uncomfy feeling about @//an-honest-endeavor’s posts that many others have been experiencing as well, including me.

Please, please, don’t go after the endeavor blog, or any blog that associates with him. This is just a simple explanation on why me and many other MHA rp accounts will not be communicating with him any longer. This is not a call-out post, and no one will be discriminated against if they’re close with the endeavor blog.

—————

1. Sudden flirty/ooc comments that is confirmed to me that the admins felt a little uncomfortable, but kept in character anyway to not upset the Endeavor blog

The anonymous admins for the Chrono and Overhaul blogs explained to me how they felt pressured into answering Endeavor’s reblogs. I understand where they’re coming from- especially the SS’s on Overhaul’s end where Endeavor gets agitated in the first 2 images- and immediately switch up in the 3rd SS where Endeavor tags Overhaul in a separate post. On Chrono’s end, the admin also felt stuck when responding. Yes, they could have completely ignored him- but there are people pleasers that have a hard time saying ‘no’ to others (*cough* I’m one of those people *cough*)

2. Denying endeavor’s actions that caused trauma to Dabi/Touya

We all are aware of Endeavor trying to atone his abusive ways towards his family from his past in the anime/manga, but the damage has been done and obviously it isn’t forgivable. The admin behind the Yumiko (OC) blog pointed these comments out from endeavor and it got me- very puzzled. The whole reason behind Touya being Dabi is mainly because of Endeavor’s abusiveness and parental neglect. The Yumiko admin expressed to me how stressed out they became when the admin behind endeavor went defensive, which I’m still very puzzled about because Yumiko wasn’t wrong about how parents could give their children psychological issues/trauma that weighs on their shoulders throughout growing up? Look at Natsuo, he wants nothing to do with Endeavor and refuses to forgive him despite him changing. If I was in the Todoroki’s shoes, I wouldn’t have forgave him either- honestly I’m with Natsuo on this one 😭

What baffled me the most is that the endeavor admin assumed yumiko’s admin was saying that all people with mental illnesses become serial killers..??? That isn’t what they were trying to say at all?? When I looked at the post myself, that just drew the line for me.

HONORABLE MENTION: #stopharassingdabi

My bestie that runs one of the Dabi blogs just showed me this SS of one of endeavor’s questions he sent to their inbox a while ago- They have more but they only wanted me to show this one.. This is not a good apology to your son, endeavor 😔

—————

I am not hating on Endeavor enjoyers, that’s absolutely not the case here. This person has made a good number of us rp-blog enjoyers very uncomfortable, so we decided to close contact with the account.

I’m not quite sure on how to end this off— All I’ll say is that if something or someone makes you uncomfortable, put your foot down and speak up. No one deserves to be put in a distressing situation. Thank you. ❤️

[that-one-paintbrush]

Hey, Paintbrush here!

Recently noticed that a few others at Hotel OJ have made some tumblr blogs, so I decided to as well! Welcome to my blog, all :)

I'm Paintbrush (they/them) and I've competed on three seasons of Inanimate Insanity! Season three just ended and I've just been chilling at Hotel OJ for a while. Not doing much else, so I'll probably be answering asks frequently.

DISCLAIMER: this ask blog has (unintentionally) become an au

if you want to get the full context, feel free to scroll down certain lore tags or check out the archive! -mod

Tags of interest:

#painty yapping: Paintbrush answering asks, sometimes used for reblog convos

#painty posting: explained here!

#misc asks: Asks that don't particularly have anything to do with a plot line

#bristle blather: Asks or convos specifically related to Paintbrush's bristles

#burnt-out brush: Posts where Paintbrush aint doing so hot... also includes the mini arc where Painty ran away and Backgroundy temporarily took over answering

#magic anon: Temporary events that can be applied on the blog

#rough sketch duo: Posts that feature both Paintbrush and Animatic (from Animatic Battle), Animatic usually played by @animaticaskblog

#backgroundy: A character introduced through a magic anon event, backgroundy is a friendly face on the wall that occasionally shows up on this blog. ....or are they? friendly i mean. backgroundy clearly has a lot to hide, and becomes quite defensive upon being asked about their past

#torch/inner flame: angry paintbrush? wrong! a completely separate character!! torch is a secretive and smooth-talking individual that possesses paintbrush at seemingly random times. also narrates paintbrush's actions

#flooding memories chronicles: Posts taking a dive into Backgroundy's obscure past!

#rediscovering fire chronicles: Paintbrush has an inner flame now. WHAT!!! oh just kidding theyre just possessed. hi torch!! whats your backstory?

#false contract chronicles: AAAAAA SPRINGYS HERE HES GONNA HIRE US ALL AAAA

#painty yapping and yapping: posts where Paintbrush rambles for an extended amount of time, usually not dialogue

#animaticified saga: paintbrush gets ab animaticified. that's it

#art imitates life chronicles: paintbrushs past wasnt ALL sunshine and rainbows... if only they knew what happened!

#backfire arc: paintbrush makes a terrible no good absolutely horrible bad decision. they suffer the consequences accordingly!

#still waters runs deep chronicles: torch and backgroundy FINALLY talk things over like civilized adults

#history repeats itself chronicles: another life has been created via m!a,,,, waow

#mod kit: Posts from the mod! me!!

hey, mod here! (pandemonium, he/they/she)

there are a few things id like to mention:

this is my first ask blog. in the history of EVER!! so pls be patient with me

dont plan on including ships on this blog! but i dont mind ship-related asks ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ please just dont be weird or mention proships

like i said, dont be weird in the asks! please no nsfw or fetish-y asks either

dont be an asshole pretty please- i dont mind jokes and sarcasm but if ur only here to be a haterade pls leave 🥺

yall can do magic anons if you want! please try not to send too many tho 😁

i made the paintbrush asset myself! pls dont use it or steal it :')

i may not answer asks immediately so please be patient and dont spam or pressure me into answering! i may ignore and refuse to answer any asks if im uncomfortable as well

keep in mind some of what i say may be personal headcanons or made up on the spot! ill stick to canon as much as possible but if theres an opportunity to add a headcanon, ill likely do so

thanks for reading!

[lorynna]

Seperate post because I am unable to reblog yesterday's debate about sex-selective abortions:

Down below is the link to the full blog post if anyone is interested in reading the whole thing. I am just going to reply to a few of the absolute insane and brainrot takes by @aux-squiggle :

1) "I'm sure you'd (correctly) chastize me if I went on every post with someone having bleach & dyed hair crying about how hair bleach harms the hair and saying "yes I understand it's your body and I'm not against your autonomy but hair dye is so stupid" at some point one realizes that it's just my opinion on hair dye and I should shut up unless explicitly asked for my opinion, which at no point were you asked for your opinion on what I'll do or (what you think) makes sense to do with my body."

Starting right off, it's actually the first time I ever spoke about sex-selective abortion on here, so me "going on every post" is wrong and intentional inflammatory wording. The comparison between dyed/bleached hair and abortion lacks heavily - it's also ridiculously stupid. I'm sure what you do with your hair and the policies surrounding it is an equally political and complicated topic like abortion. Even if you should go around telling people "Sure, do your thing, dye your hair but it's unnecessary in my opinion to promote the beauty industry by partaking in it, because it makes money off of women's insecurities" you have the right to speak your opinion and reblogging another person who's stating their opinion, who's stopping you? Surprise, you can speak your opinion even without being asked for it! Some people will agree, some won't, that's the way it is! I'm sure you don't ask people you have differing opinions from each time if you please may reblog their post, or do you? This is the internet babe.

2) "Next thing idk where you've gotten this "trivilization of abortion thing" or making it seem like I have said abortion is a cutesy procedure with absolutely no harm but as poodle has said it's also very safe. Idk if you think every mention of abortion has to come with a full list of disclaimers but if you read me saying "I will get an abortion if it's a male" to mean "lol guys I get abortions every weekend let's go down to the spa for a pampering plus abortion trolololol" that's your own tbh. The issue is you view being pregnant with a male fetus (as opposed to a female one) as a trivial difference, when it's not trivial to me, many other radfems and indeed for many libfem women."

Surely not every mention of abortion needs to come with a huge list of disclaimers, after all you're not their doctor but idk about you, talking about "i will get pregnant and abort as many times as I have to, until I conceive a daughter" does sound very trivializing to me. Lastly, sure the future sex of anyone's baby means something different to anyone and a certain preference or even the so called "gender disappointment" is real and valid, but is it really the solution to spin the wheel on each pregnancy again and again until you get what you want?

3) "As for the race, sex, other attributes thing, as I've already established, since fetuses are not people and are not going to suffer if their mom gets rid of them, I don't care. I couldn't give a fuck if a white woman aborts a half POC baby tbh like that's her business. No POC suffers from her actions. I also refuse to have a half white baby.

Obviously that's easily addressed by me choosing a black African sire but if I were in a consensual relationship with a white male (would never happen because I don't date males but ygtp) I would abort because I don't want to birth a half Euro baby, as statically they pair up with Eurodescendants themselves. I already know you probably also think that's stupid but I have no wish to contribute to my oppressor's group in that regard either, even by a generational separation, as I know the most likely choice Afro/Euro biracial children make as opposed to monoracial black children.

To me, mixed (b&w) people are black, but ¾ white people are white. Having a monoracial black child means my grandchildren (if any) will also be black (mixed b& something else, or monoracial) meaning the family makeup is what I'm most happy with. Idc what my great-grandchildren (if any) are, I'm probably dead anyways.

So yes I would intentionally make choices, including that of abortion, that bring me the life I'm happiest with. Other women who do that are not my business, I don't care. They could abort because they don't like the star sign their kid is expected to have. A birth that brings the mother sadness, no matter how small or how frivolous the reason for sadness is, is not good and if she aborts to avoid that, all power to her."

That's....really interesting...to know. You have established you would not blink an eye for whatever reason people abort, be it their future baby's star sign, their sex or their ethnicity & race. Your reasoning for not wanting a non 100% black baby being that according to you they statistically are more likely to pair up with eurodescendants making you worry about your family tree becoming "less black"? Then you're going on about "who is black" and "who is white" according to you.

To clarify to anyone who does not know my stance on abortion: I am pro choice, I support every woman's right that does want to get an abortion, despite her reasoning. An abortion as the process itself is not tied to a moral aspect, as the fetus in these stages of development where an abortion is possible, is a non conscious clump of cells. However I do think that the reason for why a woman decides to abort can be criticised. For example: A woman wants to get pregnant and succeeds. She finds out the baby would be born in February, making it an Aquarius, so she aborts it. My stance on sex-selective is similar to how I view cheating on a spouse. I don't think cheating is right but I wouldn't want it to be illegal.

"Regarding pro-choicers saying "no one aborts for fun and silly reasons" and prolifers potentially using this as a clapback, what do you want me to do about that? There's far superior pro-choice arguments, and further to that, these are only fun and silly reasons to you. These are monumental to other people (including me), and since it's their womb they're the only one's who's feelings matter.

Again as I've told you, I will not censor myself for the sake of prolifers not getting offended, I genuinely could not give less of a fuck what they feel. They will always find a reason to hate on the pro-choice movement and since we understand prolifism is actually about tying women down to men and control of women, everything about both my and your lifestyles upset them. There's no placating their bs. If you are upset that I won't censor myself, keep it to yourself."

Making it seem like I gave a fuck about pro lifers and said "oh look at this poor pro lifer being so upset about your words!" instead of "you are actively harming the acceptance of the pro choice movement". You don't understand that the activism you are making is nothing the world is ready for yet. In most countries, abortion is completely banned and women who go through with it nonetheless are going to prison or are even paying with their lives. I am genuinly glad, that you are living in a progressive country where you can access abortion easily and safely and where healthcare even pays for it. Most people do not have that kind of privilege and pro choice activism firstly needs to focus on gaining acceptance by introducing people step by step to the movement, coming to them with facts and good arguments. You've got to understand your far rad stance is not realistically applicable as of right now.

"If in the 0.00001% chance the genetic test is wrong (which have functionality been at 100% accuracy for years, btw I've found several Irish based tests so I don't have to use an international product) at 8 weeks (and the tests after that) then I get several scans from 14 weeks on that also confirm the sex (and would be told if there is a discrepancy). If at those tests they find it's actually a male and the Y chromosome was somehow not picked up, I go to the UK and get an abortion then. If somehow it's not found out until 24 weeks+ (I'd have an easier time winning the lottery) I go to New Zealand for a 3rd trimester abortion. There's probably something wrong if it was missed that many times, at every single scan and test.

Have you prepared for nuclear war Lorynna? Have you decided what to do if a gamma ray burst sanitizes exactly half the planet (the side you're not on), and have you got a contingency plan on what to do if suddenly 4 billion people die? What if global supply chains collapse tomorrow (an actual likely thing tbh). Nuclear war and supply chain collapse at least are far more likely than a fetus being missed as male not only on the first genetic test, AND the tests after that, AND every single ultrasound after that. Idk about gamma ray burst though, probably the same likelihood.

If by some hellish demon reality I get stuck with a son then obviously I raise my son, as I've discussed previously in the linked essay."

Insanity. Proceeding to ask me about every possible catastrophic event that potentially happen and asking me if i prepared for it because yes, sure - it is exactly as unlikely as your baby to turn out being a boy despite all of your fancy tests. But glad to know that should the tests fail, you'll raise your son?

"" There's no reason to fight" "but I do have an opinion." As established, your opinion was unnecessary and uninvited, so it's very likely people will get mad at you if you call major life choices "stupid" without providing any reasoning beyond your feelings. Like I said, telling me what I should be ok with residing in my womb is nothing short of foul, and frankly unasked for."

Oh no! How evil of me, I dare to have an opinion and according to you it was unnecessary and uninvited! Oh man, so many people are going to get mad at me for calling major life choices stupid without providing any reason at all! At this point I'm almost 100% sure you're illiterate and typed your responses while blindfolded and with your left pinky toe. Claiming my arguments are feeling-based rather than objective criticism. And sure, because I said that if you were mature, you'd approach an intended pregnancy, accepting that both sexes can be the outcome of that and that a person who wants to get pregnant in my opinion should be okay with either, I am the worst!

[dailydragon08]

Homecoming

Pairing: Luke Skywalker x F!Jedi!Reader   Summary: Although you're skilled in the ways of the Force and use that to your advantage in your medbay job, you always thought Luke Skywalker would be the one rescuing you, not the other way around. Warnings: reader gets shot with a blaster in the arm and leg, but injuries are not described in detail. Canon-typical violence. Reader has been separated from their family at age 10, but kept what exactly happened to them vague for self insert purposes. A/N:  "Remnants" is a series of one shots in no particular order about the budding relationship between you and Luke as he trains you in the ways of the Force. Remnants!Reader and Luke's first meeting. This is my first fic in a while and my first time writing action, so please bear with me! Hoping to get back into writing more frequently now. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated and my Remnants masterlist can be found linked in my pinned post on my blog! Enjoy!

**

“Careful,” you said as you helped yet another rebel soldier onto the transport heading back to Home One, where you were typically stationed in medbay. But today, someone needed to be on the ground to give first aid to any critically wounded soldiers so they could survive the trip back to base—and that someone had been you. Not out of any obligation. But something felt like it had been pulling you to the dusty plains on-planet, and you were never one to refuse a call from the Force. 

A nearby explosion made you jump as the soldier ducked into the small ship. The pilot leaned out the door to shout over the racket, “You coming back as well?”

“I—” There it was again: the pull from this morning. The world stilled as you instinctively let yourself sink further into the Force. Time slowed and you were aware of all the souls on the battlefield, felt their fear, helplessness, rage, as particles of dirt and dust flew everywhere. They seemed to whiz by in slow motion so that you could see every facet of the tiny pieces of debris and in the middle of all the chaos, one particularly powerful presence about to knock on death’s door. They were close and felt different from the others—easier to grasp and hold onto. You’d felt this presence at rebel functions and on Home One before, and just like every time before, it somehow reached back until you were intertwined inexplicably before everything suddenly snapped back. 

“Um, hello?” the pilot waved his hand in front of your face. “You coming back or not?”

You blinked. “Sorry. No, I’m staying here.”

“This may be the last transport for a while.”

You felt the presence reach out to you again like a soft hand smoothing over your shoulder and shook your head. “No, I’m staying.”

Another boom and several screams echoed in the distance as he shrugged. “Your funeral.”

You barely waited for the ship’s door to close before tightening the strap of your medical bag and sprinting towards the source of the connection, trying to keep it as steady as possible through the Force. Of course, the one day you left your grandfather’s old lightsaber in your quarters was the day you might need it. Typically, it came with you everywhere, but it was left behind in your rush to play field doctor. Your parents had taught you what they knew of the Force before you’d been separated from them at age 10 and your savior and adoptive father, an old clone that had somehow escaped conversion during the Purge and joined the rebellion named Rex, took over your combat training. 

You weaved between the alleyways of abandoned stone houses in pursuit of your goal, hiding behind fallen objects and receiving cover from your comrades as Stormtroopers continued their assault. Although the emperor and Darth Vader were dead and the empire was fractured, small remnants remained here and there, trying to reorganize and reclaim power through their moffs’ and superior officers’ orders. 

A blaster shot grazed past your shoulder enough to tear through your jacket. You hissed through your teeth, but otherwise ignored it. The feeling of the presence reaching out through the Force, like a soft hand on your shoulder, came again. The touch was just as gentle, but came with a new sense of urgency, and you quickened your pace as the sounds of battle continued to ring around you. 

The presence grew in strength as you reached the end of the maze the neighborhood created. Just as you began to slow your pace so as not to run straight into a crossfire, a Stormtrooper jumped out from behind a nearby dumpster and pulled you down with him. You both writhed on the ground as he wrapped an arm around your neck and his legs around yours, boxing you in. You began rocking your body violently in an attempt to free yourself, managing to free an arm in just enough time to move his blaster away from your neck. He fired just as you moved, getting you at close range right in the calf. You cried out in pain, taking a deep breath before bringing your head forward, then whipping it back as hard as you could.

You winced as the trooper cried out, but didn’t indulge the pounding in your head as his arms fell to his sides. You stood, grabbing his blaster out of his hand and bringing the butt down hard on his helmet. He grunted before going limp. You nudged his foot with yours and when he didn’t move, held tight to the blaster and crouched by the opening to the plain ahead. 

Several crashed ships, dumpsters, and debris were scattered over the dirt with a large circle of Stormtroopers and Darktroopers nearby. The presence felt so close that you knew your quarry was in trouble in the middle of it. But this was away from the main fight, and the only other rebels that had been here before were all either unconscious or dead on the ground. 

A mechanical beeping nearby caught your attention and you looked just in time to see a Darktrooper round a fallen x-wing. You barely scrambled inside the lid of an overturned dumpster before it began shooting at you. You heard it thunk closer and held your blaster close to your chest. Another softer, more timid set of beeps and whistles sounded just in front of you. You jumped, pointing your blaster toward the sound only to find a little blue astromech wobbling on its legs in front of you. 

You breathed a sigh of relief as the Darktrooper continued to descend. You could feel the shots of its blaster shaking the dumpster and leaving searing holes you did your best to avoid. Turning to the astromech, you whispered, “You go around back and electrocute him while I distract him?”

The droid chirped before whizzing out of the dumpster, hugging the side closely. The Darktrooper was close enough now that you could hear the whirring of its ankle joints. You took a deep breath through your nose and blew it slowly out your mouth before squaring your shoulders and whipping around the corner, blaster at the ready. 

The imperial droid was barely inches from you as you raised your blaster toward its head. Before it could adjust its aim to shoot you, blue electricity engulfed its frame and it twitched and shook. You scampered back several steps as its head spun in circles, watching it fall to the ground with a solid thud to reveal the astromech. It chirped and beeped cheerfully before wiggling back and forth. 

You gave it a small smile and pat on the head. “Good work, buddy—whoa, hey.” A small claw shot out of the droid’s side and grabbed onto your jacket, slowly pulling you towards the x-wing and closer to the circle of imperials. 

“Is your master in that circle?”

The droid wiggled his body in what could’ve been a nod, but a Stormtrooper turned to face you before you could reach cover. “Hey! Over there!”

You cursed before diving behind the x-wing as the droid squealed in terror and sped after you. The ship provided decent cover for the moment as blaster shots rained down on you (and some even went far past you; typical Stormtroopers, but you weren’t complaining). 

“How are we gonna get out of this one?” you grumbled before peering around the x-wing. 

You groaned and pulled back as something small caught the sun's light and blinded you. You risked another look and saw a small, silver cylinder only a few feet away from you in the dirt: a lightsaber. You frowned. It certainly wasn’t yours. And the only other person you knew of in the rebellion who owned a lightsaber was—

Oh. Oh. Now you definitely had to save him. 

You turned to the droid beside you. “So that makes you R2?”

The astromech whirred excitedly and if the situation wasn’t so dire, you would’ve laughed at how it seemed proud and excited to be recognized. 

You glanced at the lightsaber on the ground again and saw half of the imperials coming towards you while the other half stayed closely huddled around a figure clad in black. Two Darktroopers kept a firm grip on his arms, twisting them behind his back before forcing him to his knees. You made eye contact and felt him reach for you again through the Force, this time with an urgent, unspoken plea to run while you still could. 

Closing your eyes, you tuned out R2’s urgent whistles to sink into the calming nature of the Force. You could feel the man’s presence even more clearly now and felt his fear—not for himself, but for you. Not just surprise, but a sort of awe and relief rolled through him in waves at finding someone who he could not only reach for, but who could reach back. You sensed he’d lived his whole life as if he was invisible in the Force and could watch the goings on, but never join. It was like constantly waving at passersby and having all hope squashed of someone ever waving back—until now. He seemed so elated to find someone like him that you were sure it affected his ability to withhold these strong feelings from your connection. You hadn’t even been properly introduced, but he was already cherishing your connection—and fearing whether you would survive long enough to be introduced. 

Focus. You honed in on the world around you and time again seemed to slow to a crawl. You locked all your concentration on the weapon in front of you, feeling the Dark and Stormtroopers’ feet move ever closer until they were only a few steps away from what might be your only saving grace. Grab the lightsaber! you thought you heard one shout. 

You remembered the Jedi phrase your parents taught you. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.” Taking one final deep breath, you let your hand leave the cover of the x-wing to reach towards Luke Skywalker’s weapon. 

R2 let out a started beep as the lightsaber zipped into your hand and you ignited the green blade. You took a split second to admire the detail on the hilt before slinging the blaster’s strap over your arm and stepping out into the fray. 

You easily batted the blaster fire away—just as you’d practiced for years with Rex and your grandfather’s lightsaber. Several of the shots successfully deflected into the troopers, sending them sprawling on the ground. R2 carefully zipped around the battlefield and incapacitated as many Darktroopers as possible, leaving you a clear shot to Luke. 

You slung the blaster off your shoulder and threw it as hard as you could, using the Force to guide the weapon onward. Dust that had kicked up from the fight made it hard to see, but you could sense precisely where everything was through the Force and used it as your guide. You slingshot the gun into the heads of the Darktroopers who were holding Luke hard enough to make them stumble and let go. He took his opportunity and grabbed the gun from where it fell as you continued to deflect fire and cut through armor and mechanics alike. 

Although you’d gotten plenty of Force training from your parents, which you’d continued via your grandfather’s journal after you’d been separated, and combat training from Rex, you’d never been in the thick of battle like this before. At least not fighting. You had shot and killed several Stormtroopers before, but always from a distance. Never like this—never close enough to hear their hiss of breath as they fell or the mechanical whirring of a Darktrooper malfunctioning. It was anxiety, relief, and guilt all at once, as well as anger toward the people who had made this conflict necessary in the first place. 

Again, you felt a cooling, calming presence wash over you, reminding you that everything would be all right, and you reached back just as gently, even as you both saw to the enemy. The green saber in your hands slashed through the closest Darktrooper, cleaving it straight in two before a low, mechanical growl sounded behind you. You spun, unsure if you could raise your defense in time, but a sudden blaster shot clean through the head rendered it useless. You stepped out of the way as it crashed to the ground. 

You urgently looked around, adrenaline pumping wildly, before realizing the only sound you could hear nearby was your own heavy breathing. All the troopers lay scattered on the ground around you with no more in sight who could pose a threat. You sheathed the saber’s blade, taking comfort in the soft whoosh it made, before closing your eyes and focusing on your breathing. In the sudden silence, a steady wind whistled across the plain. By force of habit, you reached out to check that Rex was safe and finally let yourself fully relax when you sensed that he was. 

The familiar presence reached out to you again, this time from just in front of you. Although this battle wasn’t the first time you’d sensed it, you’d never had a chance to feel just how strong and solid it was. It was light like air, but somehow also steady and unwavering, with a twinge of darkness but a steadfast choice not to give into it. Even though you’d just now really met, it had the comforting sense of coming home to an old friend and it was hard not to already feel a level of affection for him because of it. You could feel his affection and curiosity flowing back to you in equal measure. It made you almost afraid to open your eyes in case this homecoming within the Force was all a dream and would melt away. 

A warm, rough surface brushing against the back of your hand forced you to finally look. The hero of the rebellion stood in front of you, his fingers gently brushing the hand still holding his lightsaber. His eyes were even more blue than the sky above you, but somehow the icy color still held a warmth and concern unlike any you’d ever seen. He made himself so open and after all the stories about what he’d lost and how many imperials he killed, it was shocking in a way that made you want to protect him at all costs. His face, although worn and scarred, held so much depth and kindness and you wondered what kind of hell he’d gone through to come through war with so much love to give still—and you could sense exactly how much he still had in him through your bond, and how excited he was to maybe share some of that with the first Force-sensitive person his age. There was a weight to him, but it somehow felt settled, as if he’d accepted himself as he was and the heaviness as just another part of him. His signature held a bittersweet taste: half melancholy, half hope for a better future. 

It didn’t help your gawking that he was strikingly handsome—strong jaw with a jacket and pants that fit him like a glove and showed off his toned physique. Not to mention the actual glove on his right hand and the fact that he’d made sure to touch you with the uncovered one for skin-to-skin contact. The wind brushed his brown hair over his forehead and you couldn’t help but notice how tan his skin was and how calloused his hands were. You thought you remembered whisperings of the rebellion’s Boy Wonder who blew up the Death Star starting out as a clueless moisture farmer from Tatooine, but got too lost in the planes of his face to focus. 

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his hand still gently brushing yours and pulling you back to the present. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out, surprised to sense him having a similar struggle through the Force. “Here’s your lightsaber back.”

He took it from your hand, letting his fingers linger against yours for what felt like a deliberately long moment before reattaching it to his belt. “Thank you for the help.”

“You seemed like you could use a rescue.”

He smiled and you had to remind yourself to breathe at the sight. “Yes, I got a bit caught off guard with the sheer number of them.”

R2 suddenly whirred and rolled over to stand by his master’s side, beeping excitedly. You both chuckled at his antics as Luke put a comforting hand on his dome. “I’m Luke—”

“Skywalker,” you finished. “I know.”

You regretted saying anything as he gave a stilted nod, suddenly bashful and very interested in his shoes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right.” He met your eyes again and gave you a small smile. “You work in medbay, right? You’re Y/N?”

You tried your best to hide your elation that Luke Skywalker knew who you were, but he undoubtedly picked up on it through the Force. “Yeah, I was on field doctor duty today, but…felt you and that you needed help.”

“I felt you too…” he paused, seeming unsure, before continuing. “I think I’ve felt you several times throughout the war, actually, but could never put a finger on exactly what I was feeling. I guess I never realized another Force-sensitive would feel different to me than someone who isn’t—minus my masters, of course.” He hesitated again. “It…feels good to find someone else who knows the ways of the Force.”

Now it was your turn to inspect your shoes bashfully. “Yeah, it does for me, too.” As you felt the last of the adrenaline leave your body and your eyes landed on the blaster wound on your leg, pain suddenly came pounding to the surface, as did the graze on your shoulder. You weren’t sure how you’d managed to fight as well as you did with injuries, but adrenaline could be a funny thing. The burning, however, was not so funny. 

“Are you hurt?” Luke asked, closing the distance between you and gently touching your intact shoulder. You could feel fear stab through to color his Force signature as he frowned, following your eyes to your leg and wincing. 

“I’m all right—”

“Anywhere else?”

You sighed, somehow knowing you’d be unable to lie to him. “A shot grazed my arm, but I’m okay—”

“Here, um—” He paused as he looked around. “Where’s somewhere you can sit…”

R2 tittered as he dragged an overturned wooden crate over with his retractable claw. 

“Thanks, buddy,” you said as you flopped down harder than you meant to, moving your medical bag to sit on the ground next to you. You opened the flap and began to dig, but Luke’s hands, which dwarfed your own, stopped you.

“Please, let me—unless you’d prefer to do it?” 

His blue eyes were pleading as he stared up from where he’d crouched in front of you, leaving you unsure how anyone could say no to him. “Um, no, if you want to…” You gestured awkwardly to your bag. “Do you need me to talk you through it?”

He chuckled. “Oh no, I’ve had to do this for myself many times—I mean, you work in medbay though, so of course, if you’d prefer—”

“Um, no, you can go ahead.”

“You are the expert, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You both stared awkwardly at each other for a moment before laughing and quickly looking elsewhere. As he dug through your supplies, you could see a slight pink tinting his cheeks, filing the image away deep in your mind. The fact that you, of all people, had made him blush felt like something to be proud of. 

As he cleaned and bandaged your leg and arm (you didn’t think it warranted a bandage, but he insisted), you told each other of your upbringings, stories from your time in the rebellion, and even sat there for several minutes after the dressings were completed to talk about hobbies and music preferences before your wrist comm beeped. 

“All right there, soldier?” Rex’s voice floated through the speakers. 

“Yeah,” you answered back. “Minor injuries, but I’m fine. I’m with Commander Skywalker and R2-D2.”

“Skywalker?” Rex asked, his voice cracking slightly. 

“Y-yeah?” You frowned at Luke, but he simply shrugged, looking just as confused. 

Rex cleared his throat. “Ah, well, good. The final transport just landed for stragglers. Can you make it here, or need us to come pick you up?”

“I think I’m good to walk.”

Luke gave you a look and although you realized you were looking at your superior, you couldn’t help pulling a face, using your forefinger to pull the tip of your nose up to show him just what you thought of that. He snorted and seemed surprised by the sound that came out of his own mouth, turning his head to smother his laugh as Rex gave you the coordinates. 

“We should be there in 10-15 minutes tops.”

“Copy that, kiddo. See you soon.”

R2 twittered next to you. 

Luke chuckled. “He says you can ride him back to the ship if you want.”

You smiled, but shook your head. “It’s not too bad. I’ll be fine, but thanks, R2.”

Luke helped you stand, keeping his hands on your upper arms to steady you.

You swallowed nervously. “I know you technically are a commander, so sorry if any of that,” you gestured vaguely towards where you’d been sitting, “was, um, out of line or anything.”

Luke’s face fell and he shook his head, rubbing your arms gently. “No, no, please. We’re Jedi. We have to stick together. There’s no rank here.”

“Well, I mean, I’m not technically a Jedi.”

“I could teach you if you’d like. It seems like you have some to teach me as well.”

You smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”

He sighed in relief, as if he thought you might refuse. “Promise you’ll lean on me if your leg gets to be too much on the way back?”

You nodded, hoping you didn’t appear too smitten as he stayed close and kept a hand on the small of your back the entire walk back to the ship.