#i have so many drawings like these planned for different parts of the song

[zakuryoishi]

the sparkling blue soul inside you ✧

[dreamesamu]

THE THINGS HE TAKES FOR GRANTED

in which he takes a moment to justify himself after never noticing your little crush for him

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader

genre(s): angst to fluff, (super, like-) long scenario 

warning(s): none, i think so? except for clueless keiji and not proof-reading

author’s note: akaashi is just a major green flag in this (every haikyu!! boy is ���) i feel too bad to write them red-flag-y.

choose your character: m. atsumu | k. akaashi

you’ve known akaashi for quite some time, starting from your last year of fukurodani academy and then serendipity brought you both ended up being each other’s classmate at a same college/university. bokuto kotaro was your best friend, the little owl introduced his favorite setter to you and the friendship of three gradually become established, and as if it can not be any more inevitably, you eventually developed a secret admiration for the pretty setter when you three have been closed enough. however, graduating separated ways, kotaro pursued his journey to become professional in volleyball while keiji, once said to you he wanted a place in the literature department.

truth be told, even if you promised each other you would still keep in touch and plan every weekend friend group meeting online or offline, you’ve never expect you would share every class in higher education life with your crush, the akaashi keiji. the great thing is you both are paired up for an presentation assignment in the major you and him pursue, you do have plenty of time to stay close and grab his attention from making gestures that he usually failed to realizes.

here you are again, happily humming your favourite song while carrying a box wrapped with a small detailed towel, some big rolls of assignment paper stuck underneath your arm as you make your way back to where you both planned to finish the project - the library. 

“keiji, i’m back!” you set your things respectively on the table, and akaashi nods with a smile on his face in acknowledgement.

“oookay, so here’s your today’s snack, I hope you’ll like it” you grin, tapping on the box before pushing it to his side as he receives it and casually opens it while speaking.

“hmm? are those sketches of our poster? you can always edit them on the computer, why the effort?” he chuckled softly before completely unwrapping the bento box.

“I’m not good at designing and stuff. I may draw as I like and you’ll be the one to edit it on the computer.” you puff your cheek out, hands resting on hips as you watch his reaction to your delicately decorated sweets in the box made for him.

“this looks amazing.” he smiles upon seeing the pastries you made, decorated beautifully with different kinds of fruit as each pastry has different flavours, you probably did not stay up so late last night just to make all kinds of flavours for him to show how much you like him. yeah, probably not.

"oh, it's nothing, I just hope it doesn't taste bad" you chuckle nervously while scratching the back of your neck, letting his praise send you up to cloud nine.

your actions falter when you see akaashi put back the box's cap on, set it aside as he leans over to reach the posters you drew.

"now then, can we start working on the project?" he spreads out the piece of paper, glancing at you as you stand there awkwardly, prefer him taking a bite to look through all of your efforts than just shrugging it off and go straight to the main part of your study session.

"what...? oh- um..." you trail off, a bit embarrassed. "wouldn't you like to try one out? it won't hurt to just have a taste of it..."

"maybe later, y/n. we have other things need to be done right now." he merely states, eyes study the poster in front of him, unknowingly sinking your heart.

"yes, right." you shift slightly, taking the sit by the opposite of him, trying to catch up with him on the progress.

you let your mind wanders off how many times you've lost count already while akaashi quietly focused on scribbling something in his notebook, every thoughts you have are always about keiji, your feelings and the stare you give him thinking it's discreet. what's stopping him from trying my tarts out? and how does he feel being around me? or is that his way of rejecting something without making that person feel bad? flooded your mind.

"y/n?" you realize his faint voice ringing somewhere "y/n..." the voice becomes clearer. "earth to y/n, you're staring." awh, snap. right.

you blink, startled before clearing your throat, mumbling a small apology as you try to get yourself busy with the work underneath you once again.

but akaashi just chuckles, his voice calm and reassuring.

"hey, you seem off today. it's lunch break, please make yourself comfortable." you fumble at his words, it's noon already? as he collects his books and tidy it up at one corner of the table before speaking again.

"yuri satsuki is inviting me to have lunch with her. would you like to also join? i think she wouldn't mind." he kindly offers, probably not knowing the words struck you shocked.

you know satsuki-senpai, she's a year older than you and has been a social butterfly ever since you set foot in student life. she is a nice person, you conceived, but not until you found out that she has a huge crush on your akaashi keiji, her behaviour in your eyes became somewhat annoying. in return, she did realize she had a rival to win over him, you acknowledge that through the smug look she gave every time akaashi was around her instead of you, that is how the tension gradually builds up between you and your pain-in-the-ass rival.

and now she's even invited keiji for lunch? you feel an uncomfortable twist in your belly, screaming that if you do not take further actions, you lose akaashi to her. but his way of discarding your hard work, also known as an attempt to get his attention earlier discourages you hastily. this comes to a realization: ever since he start hanging out with satsuki-senpai, he has never touched one of your cooks once.

"no, i'm fine staying here. you go" you force a smile waving him goodbye. he hesitates upon seeing the downward trend of your mood as well as the strange attitude every time he brings up yuri.

"what are you waiting for?" you scoff, trying your best to make it sound not so bitterly. he nods quietly before ruffles your hair, thoughtfully remind you to get something to eat before start working again, and he'll be back with you soon.

you groan for the nth time in thirty minutes since his last leave, deciding not to eat anything at all after you laugh bitterly to yourself seeing the bento box laid cold by his stuffs which corrects your thoughts that he is not going to appreciate what you did for him.

the chair scraped the floor when you stand up, attempting to compose yourself when you feel your brain need a break from overthinking such situations.

on the way out of the library, your eyes meet yuri satsuki's, assuming that keiji is just somewhere around here as his lunch break partner is the person you least excited to bump into.

"well, well. isn't that the girl whose best friend choose to hang out with me instead of her?"

excuse me?

"don't get too ahead of yourself, satsuki-senpai. just a friendly reminder" your tone evidently irritated as you flash her an unamused smile, trying to avoid her as soon as possible.

but the radio scene of her voice replayed all over your head, your mind goes muddy despite the fresh air you're trying to take in, you let out a shaky breath, tears brimming out.

maybe, he doesn't quite noticed the things I did for him after all...

---

"you're back. where were you?" akaashi worried tone surprises you after a quite fine time of trying to find you because your study desk in the library was empty.

"i was... out for fresh air. why?" your voice is off and he noticed that. he always knew when something is bothering you, and right now he definitely know that something is wrong.

"after i finished my lunch i got yours, 'cause i know when i'm back you would still hadn't eaten anything." his brows slightly furrow seeing your avoiding attitude.

"thanks, keiji." you said briefly, take the package from his hand and sit down on your seat, never forget to notice the pastry box still intact.

your strange attitude didn't just stop there, it confuses akaashi for a more couple of days of your avoidance, he dislike the way you put a small distance between you both in study sessions, you flinch and tense around him more often, your answers and conversations are brief and sometimes awkward as you seem to be more preoccupied and attentive rather than to communicate with him.

"good morning, y/n." he smiles, your state has been bothering him for days as he is paying attention to your fade grin and a small "hey" as a greet back.

then he fumbles. something is missing...

oh. but then, realization sets in him quite quickly: you didn't bring any homemade sweets today.

"y/n..." he hesitates, meeting your eyes as you lift your head up from the notebook you're scribbling on. "does your home perhaps... out of ingredients or something?"

you are stunned for a moment, knowing exactly what he was trying to imply, scared to look at him directly in the eye as you shift your gaze elsewhere, pretending to have forgotten.

"oh... you mean the pastries... I forgot to do it. I was busy yesterday"

lies. he see through it, you know that, but you can't just blurt it all out that you're heartbreaking because of his indirect rejection that never says he doesn't like you, but makes you feel like it did.

"hey... i know something is wrong, can you tell me what it is?"

there it is - the worried look on such handsome face that never fails to make your heart flutter. but you know, that is just his nature of being an attentive and thoughtful person, not just for only you, but for everyone in his orbit.

so his question remained unanswered.

akaashi has been extremely distracted due to the sudden lack of your affection on him. it's just doesn't feel the same. even if he refuses it but deep down, he misses your midday snacks, your bubbly laugh around him and that flushed cheeks you wear every time he caught you staring. it has been a whole week since, and the fact that you didn't join the friend group video call with bokuto last sunday was his last straw.

he misses you, dearly. and if he doesn't do anything now before your project is finished, he might find it difficult to approach you even when you are his best friend.

and then, on an another lovely morning in the college's campus, an emotion he thinks he's aware of stirring in his stomach at the scene of you handing out a bento box wrapped with the same detailed towel, a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips as the other boy laughs lightly, scratches his neck, sending regards with a polite bow before making his way back in the classroom, akaashi doesn't like what his eyes have witnessed, so when he met yours, the bitterful look sends shivers down your spine.

you turn away, begin to walk, you do not want to deal with your bothered heart right now, not if it has anything to do with him, with that thought, you choose to neglect it because it is just your one-sided feelings for him.

but you hear footsteps behind, next is a small "wait" escaped from his lips when he managed to catch up and hold gently on your arm. that stopped you midtrack.

"please. can we talk?" he pleads.

---

you find yourself trapped by his presence in a corner of the school's library. there's no point in avoiding now.

"i'm sorry." he states. "i like you, i should've known."

your eyes widen. why- all of a sudden?

akaashi glances at you, softly sighs before bring your hand up to his face and kiss your knuckles gently.

"i understand now, i was clueless, you have the very right to be mad at me." each sentences he speaks crack your heart, but at the same time, they give you hope.

you neither know how to react, nor what to say, you just stand there, completely speechless, it encourages him to continue his speech of pursuing you.

"the last time i went to have lunch with satsuki, she confessed to me." he stopped, watching your expression. "but i turned her down, then, she got angry and started to brag about you. i did not like what she said, so i got quite defensive and... that was when i realised."

"i didn't know when it started. i just knew that i didn't feel very comfortable seeing you bringing your pastries that was meant for me to someone else, and more it's because i didn't appreciate it."

he squeezes your hand, afraid if not, you'll slip from his grip and become somebody else's apple. he certainly dislikes the thought.

"i want your pastries back, i love them as much as i love you. please let me correct such a terrible mistake."

---

"yes, hello. i've received the box, thank you, my love."

akaashi spins his office chair slightly, softly speaking to the phone stuck between his cheek and shoulder with a smile while unwrapping a huge warm box of freshly baked tarts.

"keiji, bad news, i'm out of powdered sugar after that batch." your voice echoed on output, he chuckles.

"are you free after work? we can visit the supermarket to purchase some. i'll drive, consider this a date with me, 'mkay?"

© 2024 dreamesamu. all rights reserved.

[sardonic-the-writer]

𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬

↳ warnings: none

↳ song: hells greatest dad—various artists

↳ notes: this turned out way longer than expected. reblogs are appreciated

masterlist | commissions | carrd

• What you did with your spare time outside the hotel had never been a problem

• Everyone blew off steam in different ways. Husk gambled is days away at dinghy bars, Vaggie practiced sparing, and Sir Pentious dreamed up designs for his retired war machines. The important thing was that everyone knew better than to ask the other about it

• So your friendship with Lucifer never come up. At least, not until Charlie decided to invite her dad over one day

• You were well aware of the strange relationship you had with the king of hell. He was all powerful ,and technically your ruler, sure, but it was hard to view him that way after you caught him babying a small army of rubber ducks

• It had been such a long time since you’d first met him, honestly you were still surprised you’d remembered it

• Back when you still worked as a part time package deliverer for the UPS equivalent of hell, you’d been tasked with handing off a rather heavy, and rather odd shaped box. The label didn’t give an address, rather a small drawing of an apple with a snake curled around it

• It took you a while, and way too many u-turns, to arrive at a pair of tall metal gates

• An uncertain push of a button had been delivered to a nearby buzzer, and you briefly wondered if you had been sent on a dead end errand. Your boss liked to do that; said it kept his employees on their toes. You just thought that he enjoyed seeing the pissed off looks of returnees

• Nothing longer than a minute passed before you were answered with an overjoyed voice, sounding rushed and getting father away from the mic as he proclaimed ‘I’ll be right down Terrance!!’

• It was only when Lucifer himself had opened the gates to allow you in, that his face fell from an excited grin into one of confusion

• “Oh. You’re not my normal guy.” He frowned, looking up at you slightly. “Are you sure you have my package.”

• You simply showed him the address label’s drawing, and he nodded

• “Yeah that’s it alright.” A little bit of the enthusiasm he had shown at the sight of his delivery reappeared before you. It didn’t take long after that before he remembered that you were both still standing outside the towering stature of his house, and quickly invited you inside so you could help him move the package where he wanted it

• “So! Is Terrance sick or something? I could have sworn it was just yesterday that he was where you are now.  Or a few days. Maybe a few weeks. Alright it’s been a while, but can you blame me. Do you know who I’m talking about? Long horns, red splotches, and a weird amount of hands. He always had the funniest jokes to tell though— “

• The first impression of him you got was weird. For the ruler of hell at least. But as time went on, and you kept delivering packages to his house with each passing month, he just struck you as lonely. His house, while big, was always empty. You would go as far as to say that you were the only steady interaction he had. Even if you were technically required to visit him

• Eventually, you quit your job. It had been a long time coming, and you were looking forward to a different take on life away from packing peanuts and scotch tape. Yet, for some reason, you didn’t stop showing up at Lucifers place. And he didn’t stop letting you in

• “You know—“ The devil approached you one hot afternoon in his work room. It was actually quite cold outside, but the fire breathing duck in his hands had heated up the room something fierce upon demonstration. “If you ever need someplace to stay, my daughter has a passion project that she wont stop talking about. It’s pretty sparse in souls, and I’m sure she’d let you stay there as long as you went along with her plan that she has!”

• You tilted your head with a small hum that day, choosing not to mention the far away look in Lucifers eyes as he talked about his daughter

• “Sounds better than where I’m currently living.” You shrugged, handing him a spare bolt off of the floor when it rolled off his work desk. “Where is the place?”

• So you’d shown up on the Hazbin Hotel’s doorstep, then still known as the Happy Hotel, with a bag or two in had and asking for a room

• You hadn’t told Charlie that Lucifer had mentioned it to you. You didn’t want her to feel like you were only there because he dad had named dropped it, but you guessed that she had her suspicions. You didn’t seem very taken with her title as princess of hell after all

• You were there nearly as long as Angel Dust; the likes of which showed up in the room next to yours a week after the move

• That means you were present for the embarrassing news interview, and in turn, the introduction of Alastor as a new patron

• He had been annoyed by you at first. Unlike Charlie’s slight nervousness at his appearance, or Vaggie’s outright aggression, you practically ignored his spectacular entrance, save for a few quick comments

• That had bugged Alastor. You’d hardly reacted when he’d shown just a sliver of his powers. Your lackluster once over as he pulled the darling Nifty from a fireplace had given him nothing to go on. Nothing!

• “Now what’s your role here, my friend!” The Radio Demon practically sang to you on that same afternoon. He waltzed over to your position in a corner, and his smile thinned slightly as you barely spared a glance at him. You found yourself much more enthralled with the sight of Husk fending off Angel’s advances over at the bar

• “I’m a tenant.” You mumbled, looking right through him. You didn’t miss the way his eyes narrowed down at you in an unreadable emotion that day

• He took to annoying you for the remainder of his stay following his debut. With every day, he increased his pestering, and you continued to remain the same

• Neither of you made a breakthrough with the other for quite a while. Months passed, and he found you looking as disinterested as ever with his display of powers. At this point he was sure you were purposely giving him nothing just to see his smile crack at the edges. And he was getting frustrated, for a lack of better words

• It wasn’t until you’d wandered into his recording studio by mistake that something changed

• Alastor felt a disturbance in the air the moment you stepped foot in his little alcove. Territorial demons such as himself could always tell when somebody was trespassing on their land, especially when having as much power as he did, and you were no exception to this rule

• He materialized behind you almost instantly. His limbs were already beginning to crack and stretch in size, a glowing smile casting wild shadows all throughout the room as he searched for what was sure to be your cowering form as you dropped whatever item you were attempting to steal

• Instead, he found you kneeling to the side of his polished desk, blinking up at him as your hands sat frozen in the motion of flipping through a record basket. His record basket

• “And what, pray tell—” Alastor’s distorted voice sounded like an screeching echo. He wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the hotel could hear it from downstairs “—are you doing here my dear?”

• You didn’t say anything for a moment. He watched as your eyes flickered to this symbols floating around him, then back down to his face

• “I was looking for some good music. Sorry to intrude” You eventually pull out of your weird staring match with him. Dusting the seat of your pants off, you rise to walk past him and towards the door

• Alastor’s mouth opens to say something, but stops when you pause in the doorframe

• “Nice antlers by the way.” You shrug. He doesn’t have to look up to know your talking about the honey structures protruding from his forehead. They really only come out when he starts to take on his true demonic form, and never before has he had someone compliment them

• Before he can get a better read on you, you’re gone

• Turns out, you weren’t exactly unimpressed with him. Just wary in your own way. It was a slight hit to the overlords ego that he hadn’t been able to pick up on that so quick, but he’d never admit it. Instead he took to your new attitude with rigorous mischief 

• Music and murder had been the thing to bridge the gap between the two of you. When Alastor discovered you were particularly fascinated by his time period, he laughed heartily

• “Why my dear, you should have told me you had such good taste!” He wrapped a tight arm around your shoulders. “What is it you wish to know about the darling 1920’s?”

• “Did you really feed your victims to alligators?”

• “Hah! That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” He said while flicking your nose. You just hummed with a scrunch of your eyebrows and wriggled out of his grip. Alastor laughed at that

• You wouldn’t classify the two of you as friends necessarily, but Husk did mention one day that the fact he didn’t kill you that day in his recording studio stood for something

• “He’s murdered demons for less.” The grumpy cat told you. You chose not to respond

• Everything came to a head the day Lucifer showed up at the request of his daughter

• He didn’t notice you right away, instead doing a little dance with Razzle and Dazzle as the rest of the hotel watched on confused. Angel tossed you a look and you just shrugged

• Lucifer eventually spotted you standing by the scrappy welcome table. With the same exuberance that you'd seen time and time again before, he hugged you almost immediately

• “Good to see you again too, Luce. Heard you were coming over.” You exhaled after he set you down. You chose to ignore Alastor as he stepped out of his shadows and stood behind you ominously. You could almost feel his gaze burning a hole in the back of your head

• “Ah so this is his majesty! You’re a bit shorter than I expected.” Alastor’s voice was a bit more grating than you recalled. His grip on his cane tightened as you raised your eyebrow at him

• “Uh, excuse me. Exactly who are you? Lucifer gave the overlord a once over, looking very bored as he did so

• An eye twitch

• “Why the Radio Demon of course! Manager to this very fine establishment, and a—!” 

• “Nope. Never heard of you. Sorry.” Lucifer cut Alastor off and smiled tensely from next to you, not sounding sorry at all

• It became apparent very quickly that the two of them didn’t mix. If a competitive musical number didn’t convince you of that, the way the both of them wouldn’t let go of your arms sure did. By the end point of Lucifer’s visit, you were sure a bruise or two had formed on your forearms

• “You know you should really come visit me more!” Lucifer adjusted his hat as he spoke, sending you a sharp toothed smile as he prepared to step out the door. “I’m sure you get tired of this hotel sometimes. Or at least the people—“

• “I’m sure you’ll find they are perfectly happy with their arrangement!” Alastor didn’t let Lucifer finish his thought. His shadows were getting restless at this point, stretching in the three of yours direction as if attempting to push Lucifer out. At this point Charlie and Vaggie had stopped paying attention to the weird power play between the two of them, instead talking about their upcoming trip to heaven together, so you were all alone. Save for two of your friends that were acting really weird

• "You know maybe the two of you shouldn't hang out."

• "Agreed."

[smimon]

Well! Good thing I already know who I am so the "feel of duty" part of this no longer applies 🙃

To all my friends who stayed: thank you so much, and I am so sorry for being a dumbass 🙃

Meanwhile, well, that’s some ~melodrama~ under the cut…

Czytaj dalej

[ms-demeanor]

hi! i am not sure if you will have good advice for this but your photography guide made me think about this issue. i grew up quite poor (school supplies were a struggle every september) and now as an adult i am not as financially stable as id like. this has made me very scared to use any art supplies because im always thinking that im wasting them on not good enough projects or not good enough skills or similar thinking. however that leads to me having supplies bc of gifts and whatnot (ie watercolor paper) but not using it out of anxiety. do you have any advice? thanks!

There are two ways that I go about getting over this kind of issue:

Get out the supplies right now and start making any marks. Cut a piece of watercolor paper in half. Draw a line down the center of a page in grease pencil. Do anything to just start using it to get over the "can't open it, must save for special occasions/projects" mindset. Once you've broken the seal on a first use, it's a lot easier to use tools or notebooks or paints a second time.

Plan projects for yourself like they're assignments. Give yourself a deadline and materials list, write it up like a school assignment sheet, and then do the assignment.

And, if it helps to think of it this way: you're likely hesitant to use your materials because you don't want them "going to waste," but at the moment they are being wasted because they aren't being used.

It is solidly my opinion that art supplies used for art are never wasted; not all "art" is meant to be kept and a part of the process of creating art is practice, which should lead to massive piles of clumsily made, "bad" art that you wouldn't want to hang up on the wall but is nonetheless a part of the process of making art that you'd want to hang on the wall.

You may be looking at the watercolor paper and thinking "I shouldn't break into this because each piece of this paper needs to be something special to show that I value this gift" but you don't get better at painting with watercolors if you use them on printer paper. You need to use the paper (and the paints, and your brushes) to maintain and improve your fluency with the medium.

Many people are hesitant to "waste" sketchbooks or good paper or canvas or expensive paint because they think they are throwing away the good things they *could* make if only the had the perfect plan and create the perfect piece of art with each page and each new tube.

But these things are consumables. Your sketchbook is not a guitar, and it is not a finished song, it is a set of strings. The lovely watercolor paper is a gift for you to make art with, but it is also a gift for you to *practice* making art with and the practice is just as much a part of the gift as a finished artwork would be.

So you're not wasting it if you just get out your paper and start painting with no plan, or if you "mess up" a piece, or if you just use the paper for practice.

So, if you're trying to get yourself to use watercolor paper specifically, I have an assignment for you:

Watercolor Thumbnails Assignment

Materials: Watercolor paper, 2 colors of paint (your choice), Hard pencil Tools: Ruler, Small and medium brushes, Palette

Instructions:

Using your pencil and your ruler, divide the page into 10 equal rectangles.

Visit this website and click the "surprise me" button. Select 10 artworks to create monochrome thumbnails of. (you can click as many times as you need to, but the goal here is to do thumbnails of art that you aren't familiar with rather than seeking out art that you know well for this assignment)

Reproduce each of the images as a monochrome thumbnail in the ten rectangles you've marked on your paper. You don't have to mix a unique color for each rectangle, but you should mix a few different colors and use only one for each rectangle. For instance, if you are using green and yellow paint, some images should be yellow, some should be green, some should be green-yellow, some should be yellow-green.

Purpose:

To use your materials

Work on achieving different values with single colors by layering or diluting your paint.

Composition study

Time Limits:

Once you have collected your ten images and have your station set up, you should take no more than one hour to complete your thumbnails.

Due Date: July 20th 2024

___________________

If you are not familiar with watercolor, here's a good video on some of the basic techniques for painting with watercolor:

And this is a good example of a monochrome painting done in watercolor; if you want, you can watch the video and use it as a tutorial to practice getting a feel for monochrome painting.

Use this assignment to practice! Make use of the gift that you were given by familiarizing yourself with the medium and thinking about art and working in color.

I'm going to play along too and will reblog this post with my thumbnails on July 20th - anyone who wants to join in is welcome to do so as well.

And everyone please remember: time and materials spent doing something you love or practicing a skill you enjoy are never wasted. Even if you don't end up with a "good" finished product, you have learned something and that, in itself, is valuable.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + fifteen

authors note: next chapter will be a lot heavier, because we see shit play out. italicized dialogue indicates that spanish is being spoken.

ya'll better not come for me after this one either, okay! 😭

just know the plot is plotting, ya'll

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, angst, roman being a dick to anyone other than his wife, and violence

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 10k

The newly opened doors of intimacy have awakened a previously dormant part of Solana.

Something she previously thought impossible to access, permanently damaged as a result of her trauma.

But, she was wrong. 

So, so wrong.

Roman is everything she never allowed herself to dream about having, let alone actually hoped to have in real life.

Caring, considerate, gentle, patient.

Their first time together is something she’ll never forget and always cherish. But, it’s the times afterwards, sporadic over the past two days since the consummation, that have almost meant something more.

A testament to her comfort and trust in him.

Of her love for him.

Sitting in bed, in between his legs, leaning into his strong body with nothing but the thin 600 thread count sheets covering them, Solana sketches, no particular drawing in mind, just whatever is felt in that moment. And what’s felt is the image and scenery of the water, of the beauty that is Isla Mujeres. Her mom was right. There’s nothing like it.

“I think—I think I want to come back here sooner rather than later.” Solana finds herself partially wondering aloud but also wanting to pick her husband’s brain. “I know you probably won’t be able to come, and that’s okay. Maybe…maybe Bayley can come with me?” It’s both a suggestion and a question. 

Roman makes a sound against her, his lips lingering along her temple, long fingers moving gently against the side of her breast under the sheets. “Whatever you want, I’ll make happen. Bayley will go with you.”

Solana chews on her bottom lip, shading a palm tree. “But, what if she has plans?”

“She will. Plans to go with you.”

A small smile falls on her face. “How do you know she’ll just agree with you?” Solana has an idea of what he’s going to say, and she’s correct. 

“People do what I tell them to do, and if they don’t, they face the consequences. And no one wants that, so they just do it.” 

She doesn’t doubt that one bit. Because no matter how sweet and caring he is to her, that’s where it stops. With her.

Because to anyone and everyone else, he’s Roman Reigns, ruthless, brutal leader of the Bloodline.

And she’s accepted that. Accepted that he has to juggle two different hats.

She’s just happy she gets the best of him.

“I Facetime’d Naomi today and got to see Dulce.” As much fun as she’s having, as healing as this trip has been for her, she misses her sweet puppy deeply. “Guess who’s taken to her?”

Roman chuckles, looking back with a bit of shock. “Jimmy?”

Solana nods, grinning as she remembers overhearing Jimmy ask about where ‘fluff fluff’ is. “Naomi says he’s even got her sleeping in the bed with them.”

“Well, she damn sure ain’t doing that with us.” His voice takes on an authoritative tone. Not that she’s in disagreement. Dulce is too small for that. Roman would literally smother her. “Our bed is occupied.” He ghosts his lips over the shell of her earlobe. “Gonna be real busy when we get back home….”

Solana tries instead to focus on the drawing at hand versus that familiar feeling pooling in her stomach. 

Continuing with the topic in the hopes of settling that feeling, she shares, “I want to do something nice for Naomi and Bayley when we get back. They’ve—they’ve been so nice to me.”

It’s something she’s been thinking about ever since the beautiful birthday messages she’s received. Having never really had many friends, to be able to land such solid, loyal people like them is something she doesn’t take lightly. She doesn’t know quite yet how she wants to show her appreciation, but she’s determined to come up with something.

An idea crossing her mind, Solana suggests, “maybe they both can come stay here with me for a week?”

His mouth moves back to the side of her face. “Mmmhmm.”

“Like…..like a girls trip.” Solana has never experienced one of those and just the thought of having one with the two of them has pre-excitement already forming.

Roman sighs, clearly distracted by his lips exploring her face. “Whatever you want, baby.”

Turning her head to the side to look up at him, small smile on her face, Solana asks, “are you listening to me?”

Roman hums against her skin. “I’m always listening to you, Solana.” Her eyes flutter as his fingers shift and move under the generous swell of her breast. “Probably the only person that’s the case for…..” His mouth moves to her cheek. “But, it’s hard to focus with you naked like this…..”

The pencil in her hand naturally drops against the sketchbook, her head lolling backwards, lips pressing together. “Roman….” 

This is such a new experience. She’s never desired to be touched or craved such intimacy until Roman. Even with her trauma, there’s a pull that seems to have been unleashed with the consummation of her marriage.

An urge that has her thighs pressing together, something Roman most definitely takes note of. Eyes darkening with lust and something else, he asks, voice almost hoarse, “are you sore?”

She is, but not nearly as sore as she was after their first time. And certainly not to the point where she wants to decline.

“No,” is the answer she settles on, Roman’s lips on hers in a matter of seconds. She shifts her body so she’s straddling him, the feeling of him hard and warm between her legs making her moan in his mouth. Roman easily switches positions so she’s on her back, him hovering over her. 

He breaks the kiss, asking once more, “you sure?”

Solana licks her lips, forever thankful for his constant efforts to receive her consent. “Yes.”

His eyes burn with need. “Could be inside you like this all day….” He brings his hand to the back of her thigh, lifting her leg and opening her up more as he gradually descends into her slick warmth. “And definitely all night….”

Solana would be lying if she said she didn’t feel somewhat of the same way.

________

She wakes up with a growing familiar ache between her legs, soft sheets against her nude body, and her husband pressed against her, his arm draped over her, holding her close to him.

But, he’s not sleeping. She can feel his mouth hovering over her shoulder. Her smile grows a bit as she thinks about their last lovemaking session, so passionate and fulfilling. Another round of him giving her pleasure she didn’t think possible.

However, it’s when she glances at the clock and sees the time, her eyes widen a bit from the shock. “Roman, it’s almost 2 o’clock….”

He’s never been more uninterested. “And?” Lips traveling the length of her arm, he murmurs against her smooth skin. “You’d never leave this bed if it was up to me….”

His statement, half joking, half serious, makes her smile, but it also helps her realize she has to be a bit more outspoken about what she wants.

Holding the sheet against her chest, she rolls onto her back, informing, “I want to go out to the marketplace today.”

He scowls. “Around people?” 

“Yes, people.” She giggles, moving her hand to his face, beard tickling her palm. “We only have two more days here. I want to bring back gifts for Naomi, Bayley, and your cousins”

It’s the mention of the twins that makes him roll his eyes as he falls back into the mattress. “You always trying to take care of the homeless.”

Solana giggles, hovering over him, hand on his chest. “That’s so mean, Roman. They’re not homeless.”

“Then why the hell are they always at our house?”

She shakes her head, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I’m gonna go get ready.” 

He doesn’t try to stop her, doesn’t prevent her from leaving the bed and doing just that.

And in less than two hours, both showered, fed, and dressed, they’re out of the house and on their way to the market.

Adolfo López Mateos is the municipal market and offers a trove of items for Solana to pick from. Countless authentic options for her to bring back home as gifts but also as souvenirs for herself, reminders of this wonderful place that will forever hold such beautiful memories for her.

A place that also leaves her feeling so connected to her maternal side. 

To her mother.

Roman serves as the quiet, always surveying husband who remains by her side the whole time as she goes from stall to stall. He serves as her personal shopping assistant as well, holding the growing number of bags for her purchases.

But, he handles it exceptionally well, never once complaining. Granted, she is mindful of the fact that the crowded market and all of the fellow shoppers and merchants seem to well exceed his tolerance for people in general.

So, she does make note to try to wrap it up sooner rather than later.

She’d never want to take advantage of his kindness and generosity.

Solana is at a stall looking at fabric when stiffening beside her drags her attention to her husband as well as what’s caused him to tense. 

A child.

A little girl. Around 8 or 9. She has dark hair that’s down and unruly, the light breeze in the market causing it to splash against her tanned face, hazel eyes landed directly on Roman. Her hand is outreached, a flower in hand. 

Solana recognizes it rather quickly. She steps forward, asking in Spanish, “is that for him?”

The little girl looks over and nods, directing her gaze back on Roman. Solana does the same, small smile on her face as she informs. “She’s giving it to you.” 

His expression is unchanged as he asks. “Why?”

Solana giggles. “It’s an Alstroemeria. They represent friendship.”

“This random ass kid wants to be my friend?”

Solana rolls her eyes. “She’s being friendly.” Seeing Roman has no intentions on further acknowledging this child, she gently shoves him. “Please?” The ‘for me?’ doesn’t need to be asked as Roman sighs loudly and accepts the flower followed up with a muttered ‘thanks.’

Pleased, the little girl beams, suddenly motioning both Roman and Solana to follow her.

Curious, Solana asks, “you want us to come?” 

She nods excitedly, pointing a few stalls down to where flowers bloom. Solana asks, “That’s where you got these from? You want us to see the rest?”

Another nod, and Solana finds herself following the child, Roman begrudgingly on the heel of her, committed to his not allowing her to explore a stretch of land or sea on this trip without him being right there next to her.

Even if it means forced socialization. 

Solana allows the child to guide them to the stall that’s filled with the most beautiful, intricate flowers she’s ever seen, some of which she recognizes from conversations with her mom.

“Look how beautiful…..” Her eyes land on the powder pink ones, a brief realization setting in as she asks the little girl, “are these sword lily’s?” 

Again, the child offers only a nonverbal acknowledgement via a head nod, and Solana starts to wonder if her silence is by choice or limitation. Either one, she can kind of relate to. 

Turning to Roman, Solana explains to him, “these are sword lilly’s. They represent sympathy and memories.” Memories…Solana has plenty of those. The good, to some extent, starting to outweigh the bad.

He looks more uninterested than the actual tone of his voice. “Do all Mexican flowers have some sort of meaning?”

“Some. Not all.” She answers, fingers gliding over the petals. “And it’s not always flowers native to Mexico, just flowers that we have meaning attributions for. Culturally.”

“You are correct.” A voice enters the conversation, Solana watching a woman step out back from behind the stall. Her hair is a deep onyx, thick and wavy, her skin lightly kissed by the sun that also highlights the beauty of her eyes. Fine lines give away that she has some years under her belt, but it’s hard to tell just how many. She switches languages, “You don’t speak Spanish like a tourist.”

Solana realizes she must have overheard her asking the girls about the flowers. “My—my mother was a Native.”

“She taught you well.” Her smile grows, warm and friendly, familiar in a weird sort of way. “What is your name, child?”

“Solana.” She gestures towards Roman who’s still looking just as uninterested as he’s been in any other type of social interaction outside of Solana. “This is my husband, Roman.”

“I figured.” She motions to Roman’s closeness to her, the way he stays almost hovering, protecting and caring but still pretty close. “He’s very protective of you.

Solana nods. She has no idea. “What is your name?”

“Paloma,” she introduces, removing one of her work gloves to shake Solana’s hand. The younger woman is slightly grateful that Paloma doesn’t try to greet Roman in the same manner. She’d surely get her feelings hurt. “What brings you here?

Again, a gesture to Roman with her thumb. “He surprised me for my birthday.”

Paloma makes a sound and smiles wryly. “Ahh, so it’s only others he’s unfriendly with.”

“He….he’s very quiet.” An ironic choice of words considering just who is saying them, but it’s the best word to come to mind to describe Roman without being mean. He is technically quiet, but the fact that it’s because he, in his own words, hates people isn’t necessarily something that needs to be shared. “Do you really grow all of these?”

“I do.” The proud smile on her face makes Solana smile just as warmly. “I own a nursery about twenty minutes out of here. A family business that my mother and her mother and her mother started generations ago.”

“That’s so beautiful.”

“It was….” The use of past tense causes Solana’s smile to dim a bit. She can sense there’s a story there, a story that no doubt holds some level of pain. Paloma shakes her head, gesturing to the flowers. “Were you wanting to buy any?”

“Uhhhh….” The technical answer is no. Solana would have probably stopped to admire the beautiful flowers, maybe tried to identify one or two, but it would not have gone beyond that. It’s the little girl who Solana realizes is behind the stand, poorly sneaking glances at Roman, who called them over. “Yes, I—”

“She brought you over, didn’t she?” 

“Yes.” Solana lowers her voice, asking as gently as she can. “Does she speak?”

“Yes, but she prefers not to. Very shy. Parents fight a lot. I don’t think she really gets a lot of space to talk.” And the frown is back. Solana can definitely understand that. “Do you two have plans tonight?”

“Uhhhh.” Solana turns to Roman, asking, “did you have anything else planned for us this evening?”

“If she’s trying to get us to do something around other people, yes. I’ll find something.”

Solana rolls her eyes, lightly scolding in her soft voice, “Roman, that’s not nice.”

“Solana, I’m pretty sure we had this conversation already. I don’t like people. I hate people. You’re the only one I like.”

Solana decides to win him over later versus now as she turns to Paloma with a friendly expression that contrasts her husband’s scowl. Something tells her he already knows she’s about to sign them up for something that forces him to be around people. 

“We’re free this evening. Why do you ask?”

________

“Tell me again why we’re meeting this random ass old woman for dinner?”

Solana is only seconds away from applying her lip gloss when Roman’s question deters her from her task, creating a new one in its place. Capping it, she walks out the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. “Her name is Paloma, and she’s really sweet, and she invited us.”

Turns out, Paloma owns one of the restaurants in town Solana remembers stumbling across when she was perusing other places to visit while on their trip. It’s just a crazy coincidence that Solana ended up running into her and receiving a personal invite to dine there for dinner this evening. 

And it’s an offer she didn’t want to turn down. 

“Are you sure she didn’t just invite you?”

Curious, she asks the question she’s almost certain she already knows the answer to. “Would you let me go by myself?”

“Hell no.”

“Exactly.” Walking over to Roman, Solana glides her hands up his chest, locking them behind his neck. “It’s just a dinner. We won’t even be there that long. Then…tomorrow, it’s just the two of us.”

“It could be the two of us tonight too….”

His fingers dance across the small of her back as she bites back a smile. “Roman, it’s been the two of us this entire trip already, basically….”

“You know I could never get enough of you…” He gently squeezes the sides of her stomach, sliding into reluctant acquiescence. “But, you know I can’t say no to you either so….”

She smiles and leans up and presses a kiss against his cheek, murmuring, “thank you.” Taking a bit of a mile with the inch she’s been given, she implores, “can you….try to be a little more friendly? For me?”

Roman looks at her like she just asked him to let her go alone. “Solana….”

“Just for tonight.”

“Do they even speak English?” She gives him a look that’s just another form of ‘for me?’ He tilts his head back and scratches his beard. “I’ll try not to maim or kill anybody. That’s the best you’re getting from me, baby.”

“Thank you.” She kisses him again, turning for the bathroom when he pulls her back to face him, and right away, she recognizes that look. “Roman….”

He ignores her, both casually and suggestively complimenting, “I like this dress.” It’s combined with him slowly moving one of the hands on her waist down the length of her dress until he can slip his hand underneath.

“T–thank you…” She swallows, struggling to stay focused. “We’re—we’re gonna be late.”

“Too bad.” He moves his hand between her legs, gradually sliding up her thighs. “Should have thought about that before you put this on.” He kisses her temple, asking in a low voice, “do you want me to stop?” At the same time, his hand pauses on her skin.

The logical answer is yes, but the carnal answer is the complete opposite. And desire seems to overpower logic in this round. “N–no.”

It’s the perfect answer for her husband whose full lips form into a smirk as he removes his hand to guide her towards the bed as he lays her on her back. Solana half expects him to move on top of her, but he instead moves to his knees and tugs her toward the edge of the bed.

The anticipation of what pleasure is to come makes her lick her lips, prematurely moaning his name, “Roman…”

His brown eyes flick up to her, desire and lust dancing away in his irises. 

Yeah, they’re most definitely going to be late.

________

The night goes as expected, Solana enjoying herself, and Roman enjoying that his wife is enjoying herself despite the fact that being surrounded by a bunch of fucking strangers who speak mostly in Spanish has him subtly checking the time on his watch more often than not.

The desire to pick up the language grows exponentially. Roman dislikes being out of the loop in any sort of capacity.

Solana translates for the most part, granted it’s mostly things he doesn’t really care too much about. Paloma asking what he thought about the food, requests to join in the dancing—that’s a hell no—and other pleasantries that violate his religion of Anti-Peopleology. 

Except his wife, of course.

And to be fair, they’re able to share their dinner together without many interruptions, conversation staying between the two of them, which he appreciates. He’d appreciate it more if no one was there to interrupt, but alas, Solana having a smile on her face almost the whole night makes it all worth it.

She seems exceptionally taken with the little random ass girl from the market whose name he doesn’t bother to remember. Something with an A, he’d guess. She also seems just as interested in Solana, which he doesn’t entirely not understand. She’s relatively mute with the exception of a couple of words and sentences.

It reminds him of Solana and how nonverbal she was at the beginning of the marriage. And something tells him the girl also reminds her of herself. Which makes the pull between the two make more sense than maybe he’d like to admit.

But, his inner dialogue is interrupted as the old lady approaches the table where he sits alone as Solana dances with the child, both of them smiling and laughing. 

“You’re not the social one of the two of you, are you?” She asks what he considers both a stupid and ironic question. Typically, Solana isn’t this social either. But this….this place….it seems to bring out a different side of her.

A happier side of her.

Roman only casts the old woman a bored glance. “This is her world. Not mine.”

The woman chuckles, and to Roman’s chagrin, sits down in the chair opposite of him. “Yes, I suppose this is very different from the Bloodline.”

Her statement doesn’t surprise him, doesn’t take him off guard, and that’s because Roman isn’t stupid. He would never allow some practical stranger to invite his wife for dinner at a restaurant she owns without researching her. 

Paloma Aguilar. 70. Widowed. One child who seemingly disappeared without a trace over twenty years ago. Her late husband, Ricardo, was a man who at one point entered the world of the cartel and smuggling, but it was short lived as he passed away from a heart attack at the age of 45. His brother, however, Tomas, is still actively involved, but Paloma couldn’t be farther removed.

From his research, Roman could see she truly prefers to live her life away from the in-laws business, preferring her restaurant and gardening, the polar opposite of the high-paced crime life. 

But, it would be ludicrous for her to not be aware of him and who he is, regardless of her preference to stay separate from that life.

Curious, though he already knows the answer, he asks, “when did you realize who I was?”

She smiles, “soon enough.” The lack of specificity annoys him even more than he already is. “Probably around the time you found out who I am.”

Interested to see how she’ll respond, he asks, “and just who are you?”

Her smile is small and sad. “Just an old woman living out the rest of her days in solitude.” Roman has experienced enough loss to be able to recognize when someone else has also had the misfortune of losing someone. It’s evident in her tone. 

Still, that doesn't diminish his disinterest in this conversation.

She also looks over at his dancing wife, casually commenting, “I suppose it’s true that opposites attract.”

Eager to stir this woman away, Roman responds with all the casualness. “I’m not Solana. You could be 90, and I’d still snap your fucking neck if you presented any kind of threat to my wife.”

It’s uncalled for. He knows this. A misplaced threat against an elderly woman, sure. But, it’ll hopefully be enough to get her to leave him the fuck alone. 

She smiles, partially surprising him. “Oh, I don’t doubt it, young man.” Her grin dims a bit. “I would never judge a man for protecting the woman he loves.”

Roman tenses, effectively managing to keep his reaction to her statement to himself.

Love

What the fuck is that even?

He knows…..familial love. But….romantic love? 

That’s….that’s such an unfamiliar concept. Something not even in his repertoire. 

He can’t deny that he likes Solana. A lot. Cares for her deeply, and recognizes that he needs her in his life. Needs her light in what is otherwise dark and dreary.

But…..

To say that he loves her….that’s too much. That’s too strong.

Too dangerous.

Love is weakness.

And Roman can’t afford to be weak. He won’t. Not for anything or anyone. 

Not even Solana.

But, of course, this old ass woman just has to twist the knife even deeper as she stands up to leave. “You two will make great parents.” Roman is an expert at hiding reactions to what’s being said to him, but this one takes some effort. A lot, if he’s being honest. “Your protectiveness. Her nurturance.”

With that, she finally leaves him be, but not without a million and one thoughts floating through his mind, all of them now revolving around two things he’s never considered for himself.

Love and children.

________

As the night comes to an end, Solana pulls Aurora, the sweet little girl who’s taken a liking to her and a crush on Roman, to the side. 

“I have something for you.”

Aurora’s eyes light up with all the excitement of a child eager to receive an unexpected present.

Solana hands over the beautiful journal she picked up in the market earlier that day. Originally a gift for herself, but now something that she wants to pass on to the little girl who reminds her so much of herself. 

Aurora’s mouth drops open with surprise as she accepts the leather journal. Solana smiles and explains, “When I was a little girl, I didn’t talk a lot either. But, my mom always told me that when I couldn’t speak, I could always write.” She frowns a bit, instructing. “And that’s what I did. I wrote until I found my voice. The same way you can.”

Aurora looks up with teary eyes and surprises Solana by attacking her with a big hug. Solana easily settles in the embrace, holding and hugging the little girl in a way that every child should be comforted.

Aurora pulls back and offers a simple, “thank you!”

Solana blinks back some tears. “You’re very welcome.” Her smile shifts into something teasing but also hopeful, “now I expect to see you when I come back to visit, okay?”

Aurora nods happily as she gives Solana one more hug before running over to an older woman who Solana would guess is her mother.

���She’ll never forget that, you know.” 

Turning to the source of the voice, Solana’s smile grows. “I hope not.”

Paoma chuckles and moves closer, repeating the same words. “I have something for you too.”

She pulls out a cloth jewelry bag and takes Solana’s hand, placing the bag in it. “Open it.”

Confused but curious, Solana does just that and gasps almost immediately at the beautiful gold necklace she recognizes instantly. “A Cruz de Caravaca.”

Paloma looks pleased by Solana’s knowledge and asks a follow up question. “How much do you know about these?”

Swallowing the emotion, she recalls the information taught to her so long ago. “They—they ward off evil and bring protection.” There’s an almost bitter tone that enters her voice. “My mother had one….” It’s the most Solana can bring herself to say, because her mother wore one almost religiously. And it did nothing to protect her from the evil of her father.

Or the knife that viciously tore and sliced through her body, violently ending her life. 

Paloma nods, complementing, “whoever taught you our ways taught you well.” 

Emotion burning the back of the throat, “it was my mom. She—she died when I was young.” Murdered. She was murdered, but acknowledging that feels too much, is too much. Regardless of how her life ended, it all means the same.

That she’s not here anymore.

Paloma’s expression is solemn as she lifts her right arm, turning it inward, revealing her tattoos. Two Hummingbirds. “Many years ago, I lost my daughter. And shortly after, my husband. I—I didn’t really know how to go on after that. She was my only child, and he was the only man I ever loved.” Her smile is emotional. “But then I remember that love never dies, it transcends into another form. They’re not here in the way I want them to be, but they’re still here. And every so often when I’m in my garden, I see Hummingbirds, and I feel better because I know they’re still with me. Watching over me.” 

Solana wipes at her eyes as Paloma places a comforting hand on her arm. “And so is your mother.”

It’s hard to verbalize what she’s feeling in this moment. Paloma’s words provide her with a type of comfort that feels almost motherly, an ironic feeling considering the nature of the conversation.

“Thank you.” It’s such a simple thing that doesn’t feel strong enough for how much Solana appreciates such comforting words of support. 

“You have a good heart. A kind soul. But, be careful child.” She takes Solana’s hands in her own. “My….my daughter was like you. Loving and giving. But too trusting, and it cost her her life. Betrayal and darkness can come from where you least expect it.” 

Paloma’s words confuse her. The warning aspect of it. What…what exactly does that mean?

“Stick with that husband of yours….” Paloma adds, smile gradually returning. “He is protective of you the way my husband used to be with me.” 

That ebbs away some of her confusion regarding the ominous warning, as Solana suddenly asks, almost tentatively. “Could I….could I come back and see you too?”

Paloma chuckles, and Solana almost swears she sees emotion brewing behind the woman’s wise gaze as she pulls her in for a hug.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t, child….”

________

He’s not entirely surprised to find her in the kitchen, but that doesn’t necessarily make her presence in the kitchen any less concerning. Especially when she’s supposed to be on bedrest.

Roman comes up behind her, smiling when she jumps a bit as he hugs her. Years later, some things remain the same. 

Solana turns around, a warm smile on her pretty face. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.” Not necessarily. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to find it in him to be sorry for touching his wife.“Hi.”

“Hi.” She giggles as he kisses her. 

Eyes shutting a bit as he relishes in the feeling he’s craved dearly for the past few weeks. “I missed you all.”

“We missed you too,” she murmurs, moving her hands up his chest. “You look tired.”

He’s a bit jet lagged, but it’s nothing he won’t bounce back from in a couple of days. That’s the least of his concern, anyway. Roman moves his hand to her stomach, big and swollen, pressing against his abs. “You should be resting.”

Solana rolls her eyes and calmly counters, “not with how active this one is.” She moves his hand around, probably trying to find a spot where he can feel the movement. “He’s definitely your son.”

He counters, “even more reason to be resting.” 

She shakes her head, changing the subject a bit as she softly shares, “they’ll be happy to see you. I didn’t tell them you were coming home early.”

His eyes light up a bit as he asks, “where are they?”

Solana chuckles. “You already know.”

Roman makes a sound and nods, murmuring with a final kiss to her temple, “I’ll be back.” 

He walks out of the kitchen and into the hall, moving to the back of the house.

Two separate rooms, directly across from one another, each providing a variety of different activities and spaces. Most completely opposite one another. Expected, given their staunchly different personalities.

There’s no active decision regarding which room he walks in first, no specific desire to see or interact with one over the other. He just so happens to venture left vs right. 

And sure enough, as predicted, she sits at the table, so small but perfect for her. She’s focused on the paper in front of her and crayon in her hand. So focused to the point where she misses his entrance, doesn’t overhear his footsteps until he’s only a few feet away from her.

But when she does, big brown eyes landing on him, eyes that are exact replicas of her mothers, the crayon is dropped and the smile is out. She jumps up from the seat and runs over to him, Roman leaning down just in time to catch her hug, an instant ease washing over him, deeper than what’s allotted even with his wife.

This is something different, something deeper, something he still doesn’t quite know or believe he deserves to feel. But nevertheless, it’s present, it’s felt, and it’s wonderful.

When she pulls away, he finds himself pushing back some of her curls, light and fluffy, framing her face that’s the perfect combination of himself and Solana. “I missed you…” Her smile grows as he asks, eyes narrowed a bit. “Were you a good girl for your mom while I was gone?” She nods excitedly and reaches for his hand, Roman standing as she guides him over to the table where she was drawing. Roman crouches back down as she shares her artwork, an in-progress photo of the ocean, most likely scenery she’s memorized from one of their many trips to Isla Mujeres. “Is this what you’re working on?” Again, another nod as she points between the drawing and him. He points to himself. “Is this gonna be for me?”

Instead of the expected no, she answers in her voice, so soft and light. “I’m sorry it wasn’t done in time….”

A small smile grows on his face. She’s very much unlike her sister, of very few words. So much so that Roman insisted he and Solana discuss her quietness with the pediatrician to make sure nothing was wrong. And of course, nothing was. It’s just that she inherited quite literally Solana’s entire disposition. Quiet with a great big heart that seems too pure for this world.

And, unfortunately, a tendency to apologize when unnecessary.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart.” His praise seems to bring back her smile as he kisses her forehead. “Fa'afetai tele.”

She matches his smile, surprising him yet again with more spoken words vs non verbals. “E le afaina.” 

Standing back up, he informs, “I’m gonna go see your sister. Can you go help mom finish cooking dinner?” He knows Solana is almost done, if not already, but Roman also knows that personality and disposition weren’t the only things inherited. So were passions and interests, hence the drawing.

And cooking, judging by the way her eyes light up as she dashes out the room to play assistant.

Roman chuckles and walks out, hitting the switch as he moves across the hall, once again unsurprised by what he finds. She’s going at it with the freestanding punching bag, kicks that are pretty impressive considering her age. Her face is scrunched up in determination, the same face as her sisters yet so different. 

Where one is soft and quiet, the other is loud and bold. One is timid, the other adventurous. One is Solana, but this one….she’s her father’s daughter, through and through. Bold and fearless. 

“Don’t forget to point your toes.”

His deep voice breaks through her concentration as she whips her head to the side, a reaction similar to her twin sister. A huge smile breaks through that impressive focus.

“Daddy!”

Again, he moves to one knee to catch her for a hug, tight and heartwarming. She pulls back almost immediately, asking with all the excitement. “Did you see me?”

“I sure did.” He comments on what’s more than obvious. “you’ve been practicing.”

She nods with just as much excitement. “Aunt Bayley and Aunt Naomi said I’m really good!”

“You are.” He wouldn’t lie to her. She is. But, he also knows it’s because this is her passion. Where her sister finds joy in art and books, she gets that joy from movement, from fighting, her gravitation towards martial arts happening at such a young age. 

“I’m gonna be better than you!” He chuckles. At not even a fraction of his age, she already is. And it has nothing to do with her natural fighting abilities. 

“We’ll see.”

“I am!” She affirms, so determined and focused. “I’m gonna wear the ula fala and be Tribal Chief just like you, daddy!”

Roman does his best to keep that small ounce of concern hidden and tucked away. Young. She’s too young to know just what she’s asking for, the weight that comes with what he does, the truth about what and who he is.

It’s been the decision of both himself and Solana to shield the girls from it. The truth of it all. For now. As long as they can, at least. But the girls aren’t dumb either, they know he holds a high rank, one of the highest, in his family.

And his spitfire of a daughter seems determined to do the exact same.

“Cousin Jamar was saying I can’t cause I’m a girl, but I told him he’s just a stupid boy and I’m way smarter anyway.”

Roman’s eyes narrow slightly as asks the question he already knows the answer to. “And you hit him too, didn’t you?”

Even when he has to be away from home, Solana makes sure to keep him informed of all happenings with the girls, especially this one who’s already gotten in trouble a couple of times at school for her mouth.

And fist.

Her eyes drop as she pouts slightly, murmuring, “he made me mad….” His temper. She definitely has inherited that too. “No one talks about me, you, mommy, sissy or my new baby brother, or I’ll punch them in their face.”

This is the part where Roman struggles, where he tries his best to tap into that part of him that feels so unfamiliar. Because his initial response is that she did nothing wrong, that she’s doing exactly what she’s entitled to.

Protecting her family and standing up for what she believes is right. 

“It’s important to know when to fight, and it’s a lot harder not to sometimes.” That’s the best he can come up with in the moment to not necessarily let her know he doesn’t see much of an issue with her behavior. “I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes light up with excitement. “I get to train with you?” A request she’s had for at least the past two years, Roman pushing it off and allowing Bayley and Naomi to help her because his level of training is far too intense for her young age.

But

That doesn’t mean he can’t modify his approach a bit. 

“Yes!” She jumps up and down, hugging him, another small smile on Roman’s face. Some kids like to play dolls, like his other daughter, but this one….this one lives for a good fight.

And speaking of, the calmer of the two of them coming running into the room, Roman turning just in time as she smiles and tugs on his shirt, motioning for them to follow her.

“Is dinner ready?” Learning to understand her even with the absence of speech has come second nature for all of them. 

She nods, as the other one breaks the hug with Roman, asking her twin with all the excitement and competitiveness. “Wanna race?”

Roman already knows the answer, watching as his more quiet child is suddenly waiting for her sister to count them off. Seconds later, the two of them rush out the room on a trajectory that’ll lead to Solana who will no doubt chastise them for running in the house.

But they come back, giggling together as they stand in the doorway, hitting him with both a question and a demand. 

“Daddy, are you coming?”

“Daddy, wake up!”

Roman shoots up from the bed, hulking shoulders moving up and down in sync with his heavy breathing. Movement to the side of him shows him Solana shifting in her sleep, a peaceful expression on his face.

It’s the exact opposite of how he feels. 

Moving his hand through his silky, wavy locks, Roman takes the blanket off of him and carefully moves out the bed, prioritizing not disturbing his wife. 

He blows out a breath and walks out the double doors that bring him to the patio, his big body settling down on one of the chaise lounges.

It’s only then he asks himself the burning question at the back of his mind.

What the fuck was that?

Roman doesn’t really dream a lot, and when he does, they’re more along the lines or nightmares.

Night terrors when he was younger.

But this……he doesn’t even know what the fuck that was.

Children.

Roman has never really seen himself as a father, never allowed himself to think about it because it’s never really been a desire. He’s always known that he would have to create an heir to carry on his legacy, but that’s a thing of duty. Not desire.

So why the fuck is he dreaming about having not one but several children with Solana?

Solana….

Her oath a few weeks back of giving him an heir returns to the front of his mind. It makes him wonder all of sudden what her view on children is. Does she want children? Without inside knowledge of her trauma, one would think that’s an obvious thing. She would have never married him, never agreed to the arrangement when the sole purpose of the union was to create a child if she didn’t, in fact, want a child. 

But, Roman knows her, knows her trauma. Knows that she was forced into this.

Which makes him incapable of shooting down the possibility that maybe she doesn’t even want children?

And then he thinks about her tonight, thinks about the permanent smile on her face as she interacted with that little girl, the way she interacted with several of the children present who came up to her.

She looked….she looked happy. 

Content.

And of course, the now haunting words of the old woman who Solana also seems to have heavily gravitated towards: 

“You two will make great parents.”

Thinking about and being completely honest with himself, he sees it for Solana. Could….could see her as a mother.

But seeing himself as a father….that’s something he can’t answer. Can’t understand, really. 

The same way he can’t understand why there’s a small part of him that’s upset he woke up.

Upset that the dream didn’t last just a little bit longer. 

Upset that he’s now thinking heavily about what the old lady predicted.

Himself and Solana as parents. 

Fuck.

First the love comment, now this?

Damn that old woman.

________

Something is off with Roman.

Solana has noticed it ever since the night of the dinner at Paloma’s restaurant. She figured it was maybe because Roman really can only withstand so much social interaction. Chalked it up to him needing the night to sleep it off.

But, it was there the next day and the day after that and even as their trip in Isla Mujeres came to an end. 

On the jet ride back home, he’s quiet, working diligently on his work laptop. She tries her best not to think too much of it, because it’s not like he’s ignoring her. He still talks to her, still interacts with her, still touches her, but it’s just….off.

There’s like this….this distance that she can’t understand.

A distance that hurts. 

It’s why she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to not get too into her head over her dress. It’s probably the most risqué thing she’s ever worn, more skin showing than she would prefer to be exposed. But, a small part of her hopes it will catch Roman’s attention.

Hopes it can progress the touches into something more.

Because along with his distant behavior, there’s been a lack of intimacy between them. And that’s especially hard for her to not think too much about. Because, to her, it was going well. She….she enjoys being with him in that way. Being that close to him.

She thought he did too.

Roman suddenly knocks on the bathroom door, asking, “you almost—damn.” Him stopping himself puts a smile on her face. 

Solana chews on her bottom lip, asking, “do–do you like it?” She then motions to her chest that’s heavily exposed. “I know it’s—it’s a lot.”

Roman moves closer to her, eyes raking over her slowly, hand moving to the back of her, under her dress, cupping her ass. “You sure you don’t want to stay in tonight?” A small smile starts to form on her face at his suggestive tone. “The two of us…naked.”

Her stomach flutters with excitement. This is the first time in days that he’s expressed any desire to be with her in that way, and now she’s beyond grateful that she pushed past her insecurity and put on the dress. Because it’s brought out that side of him that she’s been missing.

The side that makes her feel like he wants her.

A hand on his chest, she murmurs, “when we get back.”

Because while she also has a desire to be intimate with him, she’s also excited to see their friends.

Naomi, Bayley, and the twins inviting her (and naturally, Roman) out to a VIP lounge to have a belated birthday celebration since she wasn’t available to do anything with them for her actual birthday. She’s excited to see them, to be around her friends. 

“Are you….” Solana doesn't know where exactly it comes from, the bravery and confidence to ask what she’s about to, but it seems to leave her mouth before she can really think too much about it. “Are you okay?”

His gaze takes a curious tone. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, suddenly nervous about how to word it right. “I don’t know. You’ve just seemed….kinda off the past couple days.” He swallows, and she sees something flash in his eyes, something he shoves away. Something she’s now just as curious about. “Is–”

“I’m fine,” he answers. For some reason, she has a hard time believing that. “Adjusting to being back has just been irritating. I’ve never taken a vacation before, so shit has just been an annoying adjustment.”

Solana nods, believing there could be some truth to that. She doesn’t doubt it’s been an adjustment for him. But, there’s also this nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that there’s something else he’s not telling her.

“O-okay.” Something tells her this conversation will need to be revisited, just not right now. Not when it’s clear he has no desire to express whatever is really bothering him.

Roman dips his head and kisses her cheek. “Let’s get out of here. The sooner we get back, the sooner I can be inside you.” She giggles, gasping as he slaps her ass. 

“Roman!”

________

The lounge is beautiful. Reminiscent of an upscale club, minus the packed bodies and loud music. It’s clearly geared toward upscale clientele, and the second level of the lounge has been rented out, space cleared for their small party.

Something she greatly appreciates. Both for herself and Roman. Her husband already sacrificed so much of his preference to be isolated from others vs surrounded by people on their trip. 

The group separates naturally, Roman and the twins with Solana sitting near Bayley and Naomi, the two women nearly bursting at the seams with a ton of questions/statements.

“How was it?”

“We already know it was nice considering we barely heard from you.”

“Dulce mama was out here living her best life.”

“You got a lil tan too!”

“We want to know everything.”

Solana giggles, shrugging. “It was really nice.”

Bayley scoffs, “just nice? Girl, you gotta give us more than that.”

Solana opens her mouth, pausing a bit. “I mean….we spent a lot of time together.” Her eyes fall over to Roman who’s surprisingly engaging in conversation with Jimmy and Jey. Solo, as well. His presence surprised her. 

She didn’t know he was coming. Not to mention, she didn’t think he’d want to be present for anything that’s not required when it comes to her.

“And?”

Solana knows they’re not intentionally asking about sex, but their questions are unintentionally pointing her to share just that. And for some reason, most likely the trust and bond she’s formed with them, she’s not opposed.

That doesn’t stop the maddening blush from forming on her cheeks as she shares, “we—well, we finally, umm—”

Loud gasps interrupt her, Naomi being the one to ask the infamous question, “Solana, did ya’ll….” Solana chews on her bottom lip, nodding softly.

Bayley and Naomi have to cover their mouths to hold in the screams that would no doubt draw all of the wrong attention.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!” Bayley exclaims, suddenly asking with all the protectiveness, “he was good to you, right? Didn’t pressure you—”

“No. No. Never.” That’s probably the easiest thing to answer. Solana doesn’t know how to properly express how good Roman was to her. Has been to her. “He was—it was perfect.”

Naomi smirks, playfully nudging Solana’s shoulder. “We told you it was great with the right person.” They couldn’t have been more right. “So….was it just once or—”

Bayley scoffs. “We cannot be asking her all these intimate details!” Only to then casually ask, “so like how big is his dick really?”

Naomi falls out laughing while Solana’s eyes widen at the graphic nature of Bayley’s question. 

“So you can ask about his dick size, but I can’t ask about how many times they’ve done it?”

Bayley protests, sipping some of her Vodka as she counters, “my question is for science.”

“Bullshit!” 

Solana shakes her head, giggling as she coyly answers, “we…it’s been a couple times.”

Naomi smirks. “Okay, girl, I see you. Ya’ll went to Mexico and got freaky.” Solana takes a sip of her bottled water, more than certain her cheeks are a red, hot mess. “Seriously though….I’m happy for you. With what you’ve been through, you deserve to have a happy, healthy, sex life. Every woman does.”

“She’s right.” Bayley agrees, and Solana finds the emotions brewing again. 

Never did she think it was possible, that she could have just that. A healthy sex life. Just how she never imagined she would end up with someone as amazing as Roman. Yet both of those things are exactly what have happened, and she’s never been happier. 

“Wait, does this mean we’re gonna be godmothers soon?” Bayley asks an otherwise normal question that has Solana still in her seat. 

Naomi chimes, “I mean, she’s not allowed to be on birth control, and I know Roman had to have broken his condom only rule since they’re married so….”

Solana has a hard time saying anything, has a hard time not thinking about something that should have been considered the moment that barrier was broken.

Roman and Solana have consummated their marriage.

They’ve had sex. 

Several times.

Unprotected sex.

They are actively having unprotected sex.

Naomi is right in that not once did Roman bring up protection. 

It has her wondering now if he didn’t bring it up because, in his mind, they’re now working on creating an heir?

But, she dispels that theory pretty quickly, remembering how determined he was to help her not feel any pressure regarding them conceiving a child. He’s never seemed too concerned with that part of their marriage deal.

Unless….

Unless it was because they weren’t sexually active, but now that they are….

Suddenly, another conversation with Roman regarding just what the plan is for that is on the agenda.

Along with whatever it is that’s bothering him that he won’t open up about. 

Bayley and Naomi must pick up on her change and mood, switching the conversation to something regarding some mess that kicked off at the Warehouse between Nia and some person named Mia. Solana does her best to follow along when she feels her phone vibrate in her bag. 

Pulling it out, she unlocks her phone and opens up messages, specifically the unopened thread from an unsaved number.

Unknown: Did you really think you would get away with fucking us over?

Unknown: You were warned.

Unknown: What happens next is on you.

The phone drops out of Solana’s hand the minute she’s done reading the text. She can barely breathe, barely process what’s happening as her head snaps up, eyes frantically searching for the one person who’s now been kicked to the front of her mind.

Roman

She spots him, expression unreadable as he sips on a beer, speaking to Solo.

Solana jumps up from the sofa, ignoring Naomi and Bayley asking what’s wrong. She kicks her heels off and makes a beeline straight for him, uncaring about the bodies she has to squeeze between, the few individuals who she actually shoves out of her way. Something at any other time she wouldn’t dare consider doing. But this isn’t any other time, this is life or death.

Literally.

“Roman!”

His eyes snap with hers seconds before she successfully makes her way over to him. Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest. She can barely breathe, and she’s certain that she’s trembling, but none of that stops her from rushing out, “we have to get out of here!”

His hands move to her face, cupping it, taking note of her frantic state as he asks with all of the protectiveness. “What’s wrong?”

Eyes watering, she opens her mouth. “I—”

That’s as far as it goes, the most and only thing that she’s able to express because before she’s cut off. Roman’s gaze lifts above her and the last thing she sees is the slight widening of his eyes as he shoves her to the side of him with so much force that she slams against the ground, her head bouncing off the carpeted floor.

But, that’s not what catches her attention. Not the shock of him pushing her so harshly, putting his hands on her in a way she would have never thought possible. No, that’s not an issue at all, because the sound that only seems to have registered upon her fall is what has her attention snatched and fixated.

A single sound that she hasn’t heard in years.

A gunshot. 

And then chaos.

There’s shouts, there’s screams, there’s people running around in a mass panic, but a single voice cuts through all of that: clear, loud, furious. “Get her out of here now!”

Roman.

And it’s the sound of his voice that makes Solana snap her head to the side, eager to lay eyes on him in the midst of this chaos.

But, it’s when she does that everything changes, the world stops and time stands still.

“No.” She can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move, can’t function because all she can focus on is the sight of Roman’s men with a perimeter around him, guns lifted and aimed, ready to fire off at a moment's notice. “Roman!” She tries to climb up off the floor, tries to get to him, to see him, to touch him. 

Solana is unable to look away from the sight of him holding onto his shoulder, face grimaced in pain, blood seeping through his long fingers.

But before can get to him, before she can actually touch him, another voice calls out, “cover me!” And she’s suddenly off the floor, body pressed against a stranger, the interaction causing her to try to jerk away. 

Partially because of the contact, mostly because she needs to get to Roman.

“We gotta get you out of here!” Solo’s voice, harsh and determined, makes her realize he’s the strange body that she also now realizes is trying to get her the hell out of dodge. “Now!”

And it’s right then and there that another gunshot rings out, followed by several more.

Solana’s panic nearly triples as she tries to push him away, tears burning her eyes, “no! I’m not leaving him!” Solana beats her fist against Solo as he continues to drag her, Solana begging, “don’t make me leave him!” The tears are spilling over, the last glimpse of Roman showing Jimmy and Jey rushing over in his direction. “Please!” Solana continues to cry out his name, fighting a losing battle against Solo who is successful in ushering her out of the emergency exit located in the back. 

Once outside, he has to keep dragging her down the fire escape staircase, because she doesn’t stop trying to push him away and doesn't stop from trying to get back to Roman. Solana can’t stop replaying the nightmare that has just become a reality. 

She has no idea where Naomi is. Where Bayley is. Only able to see the twins and Roman before she was ripped away from the scene.

Roman….

He pushed her to protect her.

Moved her out the line of fire and took the bullet intended for her.

He’s been shot because of her.

He’s been hurt because of her.

And it’s all her fault.

[hiraya-rawr]

lover from another nation ~ hcs .

characters !! all the genshin men i could think of rn...

note !! it's been a while since i've written hcs for a lot! aaaah just some thoughts i had today (i had a few culture shocks here and there when i met up with new friends hahahah)

~ m o n d s t a d t ~

grabbing zhongli by the hand to dance and sing in the middle of the square because mondstadters live for the festivities! he quickly learns to freestyle dance along with you, moving with the crowd and cheers and wine. (remember that Tangled scene? yes)

kaveh wasn't sure how to react the day you ordered hard liquor on your first date. sure, your freedom and love for a good drink is one of the things which made him fall for you but wow– are you really gonna down that many glasses on a date? what do you mean you're still sober?

ayato finds himself in love with the way you sing. it doesn't follow the rules of inazuman opera at all; it's much more freeing (much like how his house help sings as he does chores) and you'd tell him stories and the history of your homeland in the form of songs. no mondstadter could ever forget the songs they grew up listening to!

heizou being almost appalled by your rather... robust and reckless nature. you don't have any backup plans whenever a situation goes south, you simply hold his hand, smile, and say "we go where the wind blows!"

~ l i y u e ~

diluc having chopsticks as part of your dining utensils because sometimes, you're more comfortable eating with it (let's not forget often having rice on the table! he must learn the joys of garlic rice with his steak <3)

dainsleif stays by your side as you offer incense and fruits to your ancestors. he whispers quiet prayers, bows when you do, and helps you clean their altars. he finds solace in the familial piety of liyuens– it makes him wish he could honor his ancestors with the same kind of peace as you do.

kazuha getting tongue tied over the language being so similar to inazuman but also so different– why are some of the characters the same? why are the meanings different? there's a bit of miscommunication in the start, but you both find your own ways to understand each other when words fail.

we all know gorou has always wanted to climb the mountains of liyue and you made it possible! meeting him by the docks and touring him around your home nation, you made sure to pick hiking routes with the most scenic spots, even managing to tour him around the jade palace and the floating lone island.

~ i n a z u m a ~

kaeya has no idea how you sit on the floor while being comfortable. you've made him sit with you once while reading a book, after that, his bones ached for days! shaking every time he stood back up!

albedo met you in the irodori festival- he painted you for practice and spark between you started. the long distance was difficult at first, but his long letters always had a little drawing of you and you'd send back the scent of cherry blossoms. klee would also send you letters, asking you to come visit soon!

childe loves a new fighting style; like most sword users in inazuma, you followed the raiden shogun's teachings– swift, efficient, and at one with the sword. he loves how you fight and it's often how you end your dates!

cyno was almost confident that you were playing a prank the day you said you'll make him your specialty and you showed him a platter of raw seafood. it's "sashimi and ngiri" you say, and he waited for you to explain the pun of your joke. it wasn't a joke.

~ s u m e r u ~

thoma is quite used to mondstadters and inazumans, two very different cultures, then he meets you and your sumeru upbringing! you show him how to cook foods that can be eaten with hands, and your menu is often so colorful he can't help but admire it!

itto doesn't really understand the study culture of sumeru, but he totally supports whatever it is you're talking about and tries to add in comments (his comments don't exactly make sense though...)

scaramouche, in his "path of redemption and healing", unwillingly gets involved with you as you show him around the beautiful parts of sumeru! you argue that he needs a different, better outfit with a color scheme that matches his vision. he insists that the hat stays. you tell him he looks like an aranara.

~ s n e z h n a y a ~

al haitham was almost concerned the day you got a heatstroke after being in the desert for no more than a few minutes. snezhnaya has prepared you for harsh weather, but never the heat. soon enough your lover is carrying around heatstroke-first aid packs just for you.

bundling up tighnari's fluffy ears before setting foot in snezhnaya because you just know the cold would practically freeze them off. his tail also gets wrapped and bundled warm in the large coats you wear, protection from the harsh snow. he says he looks like a big lummox.

note !! alright, choose your favorite dynamic! i personally think mondstadters with liyue/inazuma would be interesting maybe because i want to force feed them the joys of rice...

// if i misinterpreted a culture then umm... just know it wasn't intentional and let's consider it a real thing in teyvats culture 🫣😎

commissions || general m.list

taglist !! @absolut-wildflower @boundedbyfate @sadlonelybagel @eissaaaa @ladycoleigh @nejibot @milkypompon @bloodreaper08 @irethepotato @x-zho @roriver @mich-cola @mxsomn @ackrylik @nicebonescomrade @starforecasts @stygianoir @yuminako @eccedentesiast-sapphic @nebulaera @nuttytani @klutzkat @stygianoir14 @shizunxie @bluriie @aestellia @abyislan08

[sir-davey]

King Saul’s evil spirit, also known as the Ruach Ra’ah

I want to show some of the characters from my Saul retelling, The Book of Saul, and one of the major ones that take part of Saul’s life is Ze’ev, who is King Saul’s evil spirit but personified as a spirit always taking the form of a wolf in Saul’s visions.

I have yet to properly introduce him, but I will now lol.

I draw him frequently with Saul and I have a lot planned for him. He’s his own character instead of simply being the vaguely mentioned evil spirit that attacks Saul in the Bible lol. In the story, there’s some heavy lore that Ze’ev carries, and when he first actively interacts with Saul (right after being rejected as king), he becomes Saul’s conscience, and a guide, as he twists truths for his own benefit and amusement.

To summarize Ze’ev’s character, Ze’ev can be interpreted in many ways. He is basically the essence of Saul’s subconscious containing his deepest fears and regrets. Saul’s mentality will be reflected on Ze’ev who guides Saul, seeking truths he desperately yearns for, through 7 seven visions. No matter how hard Saul tries, he cannot escape the spirit always appearing before him. And also, those 7 visions are basically Saul’s hell with different truths revealed to him. Ze’ev finds so much joy in watching him suffer, yet he is able to have Saul always running back to him for help. Ze’ev knows very well that Saul has absolutely no one to turn to as he takes advantage of his helplessness.

As for Ze’ev’s appearance, he is usually a wolf, and there are two reasons why Ze’ev appears as a wolf. One being the tribe symbol for Benjamin, the tribe Saul’s from, which is represented with a wolf, and in the past I had called Ze’ev the “Wolf of Benjamin”, but I ended up changing his name lol. But the second reason resonates with Saul more deeply, where in the story, Saul is terrified of wolves due to traumatic experiences with them, and it comes off basically as a phobia Saul has (I believe the phobia for wolves is called “lupophobia”, that’s what Saul would have oof). But ironically, Saul is from Benjamin, and he’d be surrounded by wolf symbols as a benjaminite king ruling the place. And plus, Ze’ev is almost always a wolf, and if you recall what I’ve said, Ze’ev is the essence of Saul’s mind made up of his darkest fears and regrets while appearing in Saul’s visions.

I could literally go on and on about the evil spirit Ze’ev, but I would be crossing spoiler territory if I do loll.

But some small things about him: Ze’ev shapeshifts a lot, and his form is always moving in place. And he has a HUGE tail that constantly flows.

But lastly, this one means a lot to me lmaoo, but hear me out on this. When it comes to Ze’ev’s voice, I usually either have him speak with both a male and a female voice that intermingles at the same time (for reference, it’s just like Satan’s voice from that creepy Mark Twain clay animation movie. Look it up if you’re curious lol). Or, Ze’ev speaks as a distorted version of Saul’s voice.

Butttt, I can’t help but headcanon his voice as Will Wood when it comes to visualizing him in my head. Ze’ev sings as well (he sometimes sings to lure Saul), and whenever he sings, all I can hear is Will Wood. Ack, Will Wood!!! 🔥 And I know I’m being biased because I LOVE Will Wood (pls if you’re a Will Wood fan you gotta let me know 😭). But outside of the book, I imagine Ze’ev’s voice as Will Wood’s lolllll.

I already have a bunch of Saul and Ze’ev animatics planned, but if I do make an animatic/animation with Ze’ev, it’s going to be a Will Wood song.

[m1ssunderstanding]

Understanding Lennon McCartney Rewatch Part 1.3

Okay can anyone explain the “false hotel registration” thing to me? Does it mean they registered under a false name? So Paul registered under a false name so he could go fuck a girl in his room without getting in trouble with the press? I'm confused. Didn't they bring girls to their rooms all the time without getting in trouble? It doesn't make sense. Why did he feel the need to register under a different name?

Paul, talking about American conservatism, “So many organizations over here that are nuts anyway.” John, “Yeah, they're so far right they just–” tape ends. They really were brave, though. To say what they thought and risk losing what they'd only just got. I wonder who cut the recording. 

Journalist: Paul, are you planning to marry Jane Asher? John: scream ‘no.’ Go on. Lol John certainly says what he feels doesn't he?

Paul making fun of the racist question. Good job bud. 

The whole “Yesterday” thing is crazy. Like, what a feat, first of all. I think we forget how unbelievably successful the song was.

Second of all, I know John's reaction was childish and mean, but his feelings were valid if you just look at the treatment and reception of “Ticket to Ride”  (John's dead mum song). Like objectively yesterday is a better song, but still.

Oh, John. Poor thing. 

If “Girl” is secretly about Paul . . . yeesh. It's so obsessive and adoring and simultaneously so disappointed and disparaging. John always has such impossible standards for Paul. “She promises the earth to me and I believe her, after all this time I don't know why.” Um… maybe because he literally did give you the world? At so many points I find myself asking, “what more could Paul possibly have given John?”

People always take this quote as a sexuality thing, but couldn't it also be a conscience thing? Revulsion at taking advantage of the fact that all these women are fans? At the scale of his infidelity? I don't know, am I giving him too much credit?

The thing about Paul, John – and though it drives you insane, it's a big factor in why you love him -- is he's not going to be bullied into anything. If he decides to take LSD it's going to be on his own terms. And I know you think it'll bring you two closer, and you're right, but peer pressure just doesn't work on him. There's no point. You know that.

I LOVE Paul and the Indica. Designing the wrapping paper in secret up in his little attic room, covering over the shop windows so he can do his handyman work building shelves and painting in peace. It's Linda's Paul pre Linda, you know?

John is so good at PR as in making something sound as beautiful and important and powerful as possible. Which is something Paul absolutely relied on John to do and clearly could not do on his own after the break up. Look how John makes them almost into prophets here.

"I really wanted to live in London but I wouldn't risk it." Another thing to make John envious of Paul and resentful of Cynthia. I really wish those two had just never got married. 

“I don't object to people having a lot of money, I never did. But I do object to people being stony broke and starving.” RIP John, you would've loved the American “left” of today. But you can't have the former without the latter, sorry.

This picture always gets me. It's ridiculous. Pattie and George. Mo and Ringo. John and Paul. With Cynthia awkwardly by herself. It's funny. It's adorable. It's crushing. And with that quote? It's impossible.

I think Tara Browne is overlooked. Paul brought him home for Christmas. That's a big deal. And John hated him enough to laugh when he read about his death. That's also a big deal. Paul and his messed up social climbing obsession. I do think it's worth pointing out, though, the difference between Paul’s LSD trip with Tara and his trip with John. More on that later.

I really do think they were all staunchly anti-racist for their time, you know, besides John's racist jokes and drawings… but Paul particularly. And I have to wonder where that came from. Did he have empathy for people being judged on appearance and background? Was it partially due to his idolization of black artists? Did Little Richard maybe say something to him about racism in America? Anyone have any thoughts?

Actually, same, John. 

Okay and I have to share my hot take on the whole Jesus scandal. It's this: the American right doesn't actually care about Jesus. They care about protecting their hegemony. They didn't like that the Beatles were openly and stubbornly integrationist. They didn't like Paul's comment about their inhumane racism. But they couldn't openly counter that without showing their hand. So they used the Jesus comment as an excuse. If they play the religious persecution card, they get to paint themselves as the victims and therefore the good guys while they take down anyone who challenges the status quo that keeps them in money and power (aka the Beatles). 

Maybe I should've had a “poor baby” tally because the number of times I've said that about John in these comments has got to be tally-worthy. I would've driven around in a gorilla suit with you, honey!

It is actually amazing that there hasn't been more speculation on Paul's sexuality with all these serious boyfriends. 

Paul tells a story about a time he flew a plane, and how much better he liked it than being a passenger. First off. Imagine being a pilot and just being like “oh, you've never touched a joystick in your life, but you're Paul McCartney? Sure, go ahead. Fly the plane.” But also. His control issues and his confidence are both off unreal. No one in their right mind would feel more safe flying a plane – as someone with a complete lack of experience – than when a licensed pilot is flying it. 

Okay I literally JUST learned that Here There and Everywhere says, “how good it can be” not could. Can. And it's one of those in my "for sure this was about John" folder. Okay then. Wow.

The thing is they really did compliment each other's songs a lot more than modern Paul makes it seem like. So I wonder what it was about the “Here There and Everywhere” compliment that made it so special to Paul?

This footage where John is hiding behind McCharmley. I love protective Paul and how different he is to protective John and how much they needed each other. 

Hall of Fame quote: “what composer do you respect the most?” “I dunno really. John Lennon.” “Paul McCartney.”

[drchucktingle]

Dearest Dr. Chuck, I've enjoyed following you and your work for a while now, and I'm glad you're here to share your trot and the trots of others you have come to know. Because you work so hard to explore the experiences of as many different people as possible, I wonder: What are your plans for future Tinglers featuring fat characters? Many (most?) of your characters, at least as they're portrayed on the covers, are thin and muscular, and while this is sexy to many people (and probably more profitable, which I know you have to factor in), I'm sure you know that fat people are also worthy of both love and pounding! I'd love to see more Tinglers that proudly choose love by featuring fat people, and I'd also love to hear your thoughts about this topic.

hello buckaroo thank you for asking. there are a few answers for this and main reason that there are less bigger buckaroos on covers is that there are very few STOCK PHOTOS of bigger buckaroos in shirtless or erotic way unfortunately.

THAT BEING SAID i always try to trot with diverse cover models. i think part of idea that buckaroos on covers are ONLY ripped and buff is because certain titles like that have gotten popular and so this becomes general understanding about tingler covers when in reality there are actually some other options if buds dig around. NOT ENOUGH but there are some.

of course, could always be more so i will keep trying to make those choices when i can while also considering diverse race of cover models and other ways. the more variety the better thats the buckaroo way

anywhere here are some tinglers with larger cover models in case you missed. LOVE IS REAL

The Sentient Lesbian Em Dash — My Favorite Punctuation Mark — Gets Me Off

Pounded By The Physical Manifestation Of My Friend's Lack Of Reaction To My New Favorite Song When I Play It For Them

Mercury Is In Retrograde And She Eats My Ass

Not Pounded By My Soul-Crushing Job Because I Quit

Eaten Right By The Mysterious S Symbol Everyone Used To Draw

The Tell-Tale Butt

[fatkish]

Hii,could you do a part 2 of Aizawa x suicidal child? Please :)

Maybe they did hurted themselves or just confort

Father Aizawa x Suicidal Reader Pt.2

I’ll Never let you go

You and your dad went to the hospital the next day to get your mental health evaluated. Turns out it’s shit. The doctors suggested that you should be on suicide watch and be put in the psychiatric ward for the mean time until they deemed you safe for the partial hospitalization program. While you were in the psychiatric ward the doctors suggested that you see a therapist and create a safety plan. So you asked if you could bring an instrument or at least a pen and paper to write with so you could write songs and journal.

It took some time but you got settled and your dad visited you every day. As the days went by you were writing and journaling. Things didn’t seem that bright right away but that was fine.

(Play the song)

You light a candle just to see in the dark

You're only running on a fuse, and it's been falling apart again

I'm by your side, I hope at least that helps

And life sucks sometimes, it's feeling more like hell

When your dad would visit he would tell you about your cats at home, the mischief his students got into, etc. sometimes Uncle Hizashi would come with him and you two would pretend to jam out to music he’d play. But even though you smiled and laughed there was still a darkness lurking beneath the surface of your mind.

And all the walls around you are turning to ashes

And the flames surround you when everything crashes

Don't hold your head, 'cause it'll all work out

And don't let go of my hand, I won't let you down

The silence is deafening

Keep fighting, you're trembling

But it's fine, it'll be alright

See the pain in your eyes, but we still survive

As you talked to your therapist about the reasons why you feel like dying the relief of getting it out in the open was momentary before the weight of your feelings would come crashing down. You and your therapist would talk about how your dad found you as you were planning to end it all. You talked about how your dad would feel if you went ahead with it and he was too late. How it would affect him and others and how they would feel if you died.

Just don't forget about me

When you feel like you're drowning

I know it's hard to try

If it gets rough, I'm by your side

As the days passed and you talked to the doctors they eventually saw that you were ready for a partial hospitalization program. This program would have you visit the hospital and have a certain amount of hours you would need to spend in the classes at the hospital. These classes had other people in them and was a sort of rehab program for many different people. The classes were about a bunch of different topics that focused on mental health.

When everything

Is falling apart, put your head on my shoulder

Don't cry, just another bad night

You'll make it out alive

When everything is taking its toll, I'll pull you a little closer

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go (never let you go)

You learned a lot of different things like how different mental disorders affected the brain and its functions. You took art therapy and music therapy classes where you would draw something based on the prompt or you’d share a song and explain how it made you feel. All in all, it was very enlightening and helpful.

If your clouds are grey then so are mine

Your smile faded but still you shine

Got my path again into your soul

It's a place that I call home

I can feel your fingertips, they're burnin' my skin again

But I still take your hand

And we'll run away from this mess

I'll bury my heart in the hole in your chest

Your dad would talk with you about your classes and what you learned. You’d show him your notes and he loved seeing the art you made even if it sucked. He found the techniques for panic attacks very useful and decided to have you teach them to him so he could teach his class.

Just don't forget about me

When you feel like you're drowning

I know it's hard to try

If it gets rough, I'm by your side

You spent more time with your dad and he took more time to focus on you and your mental health. He put time aside to make sure to spend with you. You guys would cuddle on the couch and you’d help him grade papers. Sometimes you’d need his help to understand what someone wrote. Apparently you read the students bad handwriting better than your dad. You decided to write feedback on some of the papers like ‘practice your handwriting on separate paper. Heroes need legible handwriting’ or you’d make small corrections and show them how to fix it for next time. Overall, grading papers with your dad was fun.

When everything

Is falling apart,

put your head on my shoulder

Don't cry, just another bad night

You'll make it out alive

When everything

is taking its toll, I'll pull you a little closer

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go again

You told your dad that you still have bad thoughts but now, every time you did, you’d follow your safety plan and talk to him or Hizashi. You’d find someone who you trust and talk to them. Your dad would let you snuggle up to him with your head on his shoulder as you told him everything you needed to.

You don't have to cry alone

And I'll hold this weight above you

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go

Some of the best things you learned were to just live day by day. You don’t have to worry about tomorrow and you don’t have to be hopeful about tomorrow either, it’s enough to just be curious about what’s next. You decided that you wanted to see your friends become heroes and that you had to see if Bakugou became the next number 1. That was enough for both you and your dad. And he promised that he would always be here for you and he’d never let you go.

[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. 

[three-realms-archive]

Let's Form an Idol Group

(Check the end for a fun commenting idea which might turn into more of these, if there's interest :D)

“So. Maybe a band wasn’t the best idea.” Asmo began, pushing the last of several clothing racks he had selected from his walk-in closet into the House of Lamentation’s ballroom. The inhabitants of the House of Lamentation were sat on various chairs around him; wearing expressions ranging from buzzing with excitement, to complete disinterest. “But Levi has introduced me to the wonders of idol groups; and my beautiful, fabulous self has decided that this is our family’s calling! Let's talk outfits - ”

“Concept! Concept first.” Levi said, interrupting his younger brother’s monologue.

“Right, concept!” Asmo corrected himself, taking a seat on one of the many chaise-lounges in the House of Lamentation. He sat against the plush pillows dramatically, in a way which made Satan roll his eyes - but you stifled a giggle when the fourth and fifth-born both leaned back and crossed their legs in almost the exact same way.

“I’ve seen a bunch of idol concepts before.” You spoke matter-of-factly, as you put your phone back in your pocket. The start of the conversation had inspired you to quickly text a song recommendation to someone. You continued. “It might be best to decide if you want to go cutesy - or badass - or maybe some inspired kind of theme.” Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Leviathan nodding enthusiastically in agreement with you. Finally; something he could do with his family that could hold his attention.

Satan raised an eyebrow. “Inspired?”

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah! There’s been dark vampire-y vibes, high school settings, beachwear. It’ll be, like, the main part of our hit single! Though sometimes it permeates into merch, and stuff.”

“A-Ah! Merch! Yes - we need merch!” Levi squeaked, suddenly doodling in the binder that you swear wasn’t in his hands a few seconds ago. In your peripheral vision, you could make out his scribbled lines to be a line-up of seven, anatomically-accurate body drawings (from the hair, it looked to be his brothers); as well as some hastily scrawled merch ideas. Light sticks, tote bags, photocards… and ‘Beel-inspired instant ramen’? You decided not to ask.

Asmo was also looking at the third-born with stars in his eyes. “Yes, big bro! MC! That’s the spirit! I think our theme should be Cutie and Elegant Asmodeus, so that’s all settled. Now - “

“How come you get to decide, huh?” Mammon interjected, leaning against the doorframe. He had pretended to not care when Asmo had first called a family meeting and announced his plan to turn his family into an idol group. But, from the way he was intently listening, he was 100% into the idea. “We should have a cool concept. Something badass and awesome.”

“That’s no different than the first band we tried to form over phone chat, and look where that went.” Satan interjected calmly. “How about a story-inspired concept? Fairytales, or film noir?”

“Ooh!” You piped up happily, much to Satan’s delight and Mammon’s visible dismay. “This girl group once did a love song inspired by a bunch of famous movie scenes. I totally see us as idols in a video like that.”

Lucifer shook his head. He, like Mammon, had spent most of the conversation appearing disinterested by sitting at a table to do work. But even the Avatar of Pride was drawn in by the conversation, and you smiled fondly as he looked around at his brothers bonding with a softer-than-usual gaze. Even if he did visibly cringe at the word ‘idols’ and ‘us’ in the same sentence.

“If I may. Perhaps you all should consider coming up with something unique. It would be a selling point to do something new and innovative, no?”

Asmo and Levi nodded enthusiastically. Belphegor (who was sleeping on your shoulder until Lucifer had started to speak) and Satan grimaced. You and Mammon looked at each other, thoughtfully.

Suddenly, Beel walked in. Only you and Belphie had noticed that he had walked out of the room earlier with a rumbling stomach as soon as Asmo had started talking.

Now, the Avatar of Gluttony had returned, holding a comically-large tub of sorbet, shovelling a hefty scoop into his mouth using what looked like a ladle. Between bites, he seemed to be mumbling something.

“… boom, boom, boom - bah, bah, bah - cookin’ like a chef, I’m a five-star Mich - oh. Hey, MC.” Beel sang absentmindedly, stopping when everyone in the room turned to look at him. Lucifer nodded to him in acknowledgement. Levi and Asmo had heard what he was singing and grinned excitedly. Belphegor, who saw what you had texted to his twin earlier, snickered. You smiled. “Did you like the song I sent you, Beel?”

Beelzebub looked straight at you, an slightly-embarrassed blush dusting his cheeks at the thought of his family hearing him singing. Nevertheless, he shot you a boyish grin. “Yeah. I can only really remember that part, though, for some reason.”

(it doesn't seem like asmo to just stop trying to form his boy band, so i headcannon that he does a fortnightly attempt to make his dreams come to life. we have overture now tho, so i'm gonna say that was all asmo - and maybe levi's - doing. i thought it would be nice for the brothers to partake in some of levi's interests, too :D) (pls comment below if you got any of the kpop references! as a hint for one of them, i don't think i can call myself a stay but i love stray kids' music and really respect the members for being so talented - but that lyric was the first one in my head when i thought about beel ahaha)

(edit: whoops fixed the cookin’ like a chef lyric ahaha)

Comment below one of the following and I might turn some into writing, or a bunch of small snippets, if I get enough:

A name for the brothers' K-Pop group!

A concept for the brothers' debut!

A silly or unique piece of merch their group would have!

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Replica (Part 2)

Summary: One episode radically changes the girl’s position in Perturabo’s eyes.

Perturabo/fem!Reader

Warnings: incest (kinda), possessive behavior, beating/abuse

Word Count: 1516

Song: Mitski - Washing Machine Heart

You weren’t able to count for sure, but it seems like several months have passed since that fateful meeting. The day Perturabo showed you his plans, you were almost silent. Although he seemed quite satisfied with your amazed look. But soon you grew bolder and began bombarding the primarch with questions.

He answered them with joy, although he sometimes continued to look away as if he didn’t want to look at you longer than expected. And it always happened at such different moments. When you smiled or tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. Once, listening to his explanations on the structure of the baths, you frowned, causing the primarch to sigh strangely. Then he finished his story, sending you to bed.

Just think, this scary and sullen primarch was so nice to you. At some point you thought that appearances were deceiving and rumors were exaggerated. You even asked another slave if they were intimidating you in vain. But he only looked at you with an angry look.

“He tolerates only you.”

You didn't make any friends. When people find themselves in terrible conditions, they always try to unite. But as soon as one stands out, everyone turns against him. Even if they previously communicated well. The same thing happened to you, as soon as all the serfs realized that you were in favor of Perturabo. But many of the slaves served here all their lives.

If you served an aristocrat, everyone would think you were a witch. Or achieved favor through bed. But you served the primarch and no one could come up with a clear explanation. Now only you were allowed to clean his chambers. But more often than not, you lingered, talking with the lord about his new inventions. You not only didn’t work so hard, you weren’t really tired.

It was only a matter of time before you paid for your luck. One day Perturabo told you about how he wanted to build a palace for the False Emperor (you couldn't understand why he called his father like that). But his position was undeservedly stolen by Dorn. Perturabo could create something beautiful and majestic on Terra but he didn't get permission.

“Rogal brought your world to Imperium at the dawn of the Crusade. He left behind a fortress as a reminder of the strength of the Emperor." - The primarch grinned evilly, clenching his fist. - “It was not difficult for me to take your capital. The battle for Terra will be more difficult, but victory will still be mine.”

Perturabo glanced at you and then looked away. Lately, he began to avoid looking at you more and more often, but continued to call you to him. You could only guess why. Maybe the man didn't want to get too attached to a mortal girl? Or maybe he himself didn’t understand why he was so thirsty for your attention. Be that as it may, you were only glad to meet him.

“What do you have to say about this?”

What an awkward conversation.

“Well, I don’t really know anything about your brother. He visited my world once when I was little, but I couldn’t even see him.” - the man silently drilled into the wall and you started babbling excitedly. - “Although since I was a chronicler, later I could be officially transferred to remembrancer. Then I most likely went to his service and...”

You heard a fist hit the table and you flinched, drawing your legs closer to you. You shouldn’t have mentioned this point, you definetly shouldn't.

“So even you prefer my brother?” - The primarch raised his voice, barely restraining himself. He just told you about his greatest grievance against the Emperor and Dorn, and you supported the second? - “Forget about Rogal, ungrateful one. You belong to me, you are mine, si...”

The man will suddenly stop, looking you over from head to toe. He turned away from you in disappointment, almost exhausted, to the drawings. At that moment you felt so worthless.

"Leave me alone".

He didn't have to be told twice. You quickly left the room, regretting your question. How could you screw up like that? You really were an ungrateful girl. Perturabo could have treated you the same as any other serf, but instead he did not burden you with work, showed you his inventions, trusted you with his stories. You should have been attentive to him and listened to what you said.

Later, you learned from your mentor that the primarch forbade you to approach his chambers. Like all other serfs. But the worst thing is that he didn’t want to see you at all and ordered you to be sent to work in the Iron Blood library. While the head slave was telling you this news, you couldn’t help but notice the gloating in his eyes.

The week passed in a blur. You kept waiting for the primarch to call you to him. As you fell asleep, you saw his disappointed look. Is this really how he will remember you? Is this your last meeting? It just couldn't be true, you were so attached to him.

Every day you felt worse from the realization that this was now your new life. And one time you didn’t notice how you accidentally damaged a book while cleaning. Accidentally used the wrong product and as a result the pages turned yellow. As soon as one of the serfs saw this, he immediately rushed to the caretaker. You couldn't blame him, it was his job.

You have been punished. Caretaker beat your arms and legs so that it was difficult to sleep. Hit you in the face a couple of times so that when you looked in the mirror you would not forget about the offense. Strangled you so that you would remember that your life no longer belongs to you. And after that also forced you to work. You could barely move for the next two days.

Then Perturabo called you to his chambers. Serfs tried to heal most of the marks, but it still didn't help. When you entered the room, the man was sitting with his back to you behind the drawings. Lord of Iron didn't even look at you.

“I made a robot,” the primarch spoke and you almost smiled at how apologetic he sounded. - “according to the drawings of the ancient masters of Terra. I think you will be interested in looking at it. Why are you still standing at the door?”

Perturabo turned around and his eyes widened. He stood up from the table in disbelief and cautiously approached you. How tall he was. You constantly forgot about it, getting used to the fact that he was almost always sitting at work. But now he blocked the lamp with his figure. Now the light no longer fell on you, only its shadow.

The man knelt down in front of you and carefully placed his hands on your shoulders. You winced. Until this day, he had never touched you.

"Who did it?" - The primarch’s eyes darkened. His anger was not directed at you, but you were still scared. He looked like he was going to burn everything down. Like he once did to your home. - “Who touched you?”

Tears appeared in the corners of your eyes. What's on his mind? You knew that the primarchs were completely different people, almost demigods, but this was too much. Over these few months, you have seen great creations and heard reflections on existence. And at the same time, Perturabo behaved so... humanely. Like an ordinary teenage boy. First he destroys, then he creates. He drives you away and then calls you back.

"Tell me". - the grip on your hands has noticeably strengthened. Now you'll have even more bruises.

What will happen if you tell him name? What will happen to the caretaker? Will Perturabo beat him up? Will he kill the serf or throw him into space? Or maybe turn him into a servitor? You hated your tormentor, but did not wish him a terrible fate. But primarch won’t just back down.

You tell the name. You say what happened. Tears begin to flow freely and you, not caring about your appearance, continue to ask for forgiveness and mercy. You didn't want to damage the book, the slave was right to beat you. Something strange flashes in the man's eyes. And after seconds you understand what it is.

Fear. He's scared to look at you. About what happened to you. Thumbs gently touch your cheeks, wiping away tears. The hand goes lower and lower until it reaches the neck. The primarch strokes the mark on your throat. Remembering the feeling of pain, you sob again.

“No one will offend you anymore. No one will hurt you." - Perturabo looks darkly straight into your eyes. You feel like you're falling straight into an abyss. The primarch does not doubt his words. Now he is confident in what he says and what he does. He doesn't look away from you anymore. - "I promise".

You still felt his gentle touch on your neck.

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

I LOOOOVE Ur Alfie fics. Could u do just general headcannons about being married and starting a family with him? ❤️

Hi bb!!! Im so glad you like them! I hope you enjoy these HCs, I know I kind of went overboard! Maybe I’ll do a continuation?? Maybe I’ll focus on different aspect of life with him? Idk we’ll workshop it. As always, sending all my love 💕💕💕

Married Life with Alfie Solomons - HCs

In planning the wedding, you initially were planning on a small wedding. Nothing too extravagant, just close family and a party at the house.

That’s what you planned anyway. It grew and grew with every family member that “HAD to come treacle!” Both of your families are rather large and extended. Mixed with business associates that had to be invited for sake of peace… it exploded into a 200 person affair.

Despite the fact that Alfie prefers to not be disturbed, it ended up being a grand affair. Drinks flowed. Laughter was raucous. The dancing never stopped! And there were only 3 fights, which Alfie involved himself in only 2 of them. Needless to say, it went rather well!

But your favorite part of the night above all was when you got home. Still giggling and warm from the party, you’re pulled into the parlor by your darling Alfie. Shirt half done, and hair a disaster, he looks so so handsome. His eyes so soft, he puts on the radio, bringing you in close to him, “Mrs. Solomons… would you give an old man a dance?”

And you do. Song after song, twirling around the parlor, enjoying the life that had a new layer of meaning.

Despite Alfie’s insistence that you shouldn’t keep working because, “No love of mine should be lifting a finger.” You kept your job at the distillery as his secretary and head of the jewelry shop. You insisted to Alfie that keeping your job that still made you feel like your own person, not just Alfie’s spouse.

There was something so intimate and special in waking up every morning with him, walking to the office with him, going through the work day, and coming home with him. If Alfie was clingy before, it had only grown worse since your nuptials. He loved having you near. He never wanted you away from his side.

Though the mornings were sweet, the evenings were by far your favorite with Alfie. Coming home, drawing the curtains closed to hide away in your own little oasis of solitude and quiet.

Instead of leaving you to do all the cooking and cleaning for the evening meal like other men of the time, Alfie stays wrapped close to your apron strings. As you craft a soul warming meal, he stays chopping and cutting, washing up the dishes as you go to ensure that the evening is free of any impediments.

Alfie takes Shabbat incredibly seriously. He is on a strict schedule on those days, and actually forbids you from working on Fridays, to let you prepare anything needed for the Sabbath. Many times your family joins you in your home, and Alfie takes the lead in prayers. Though you didn't think it was possible, your heart grows with adoration each time you watch him quietly go through the ritual. Watching his devotion and care to the faith and your people's history reminds you of the type of man he his.

Marriage with Alfie does not come without some arguments. It is Alfie Solomons. Both of you stubborn and passionate, it’s what makes you a formidable force together, but it also brings some… loud outbursts.

It usually is about whether or not he’s being wise in his decisions. But it also comes out when he thinks you’re not being careful. When a jealous flare rises up in him. Or just when he gets a little snippy.

But it doesn’t take much to make up. Once you and Alfie have let it all out, either one of you will go to the other and bridge the gap. When he’s particularly cross, all it takes is for you to find him in his favorite chair. Lean over the back of it, draping your arms across his neck. “I’m so sorry Alfie,” you whisper in his ear, a particular weakness, “I know you’re just looking out for me. Forgive me?” A few kisses in his neck and he’ll be dragging you into his lap, grumbling about how much of a vicious siren you are.

When you’re cross… Alfie pulls out all the theatrics. He comes to your room where you’ve holed up, seething. He gets on his knees, taking your hand in his, “Awe treacle… have pity on an old man. I’m sorry my love, I am. Don’t punish me too harshly now! Please give you husband a kiss yeah? This life is so short! Let’s not go to bed angry my love!”

And of course you forgive him. How can you not when he kisses you so sweetly, and begs so beautifully.

It will be a few years before you and Alfie have children. Alfie was worried that he wouldn’t be a good father due to his age, but in his heart of hearts he wanted little ones. He yearned to play with the kids on the floor with the dogs. To swing them around in the garden. Watch you be an incredible mother. Though he was afraid, you knew he would be the perfect father.

Once you both confessed your mutual desire for kids, it happened shockingly quickly. But is anyone really shocked? Alfie is determined and disciplined above all else.

Once you do get pregnant, Alfie does put his foot down. You are not coming into the office. It is far too dangerous for you to be coming in around all 'that business'. And Alfie heard from someone (he made it up) that working isn't good for birthing or babies.

He benches you for the entire pregnancy, and brings his former housekeeper Sarah out of retirement to help tend to you.

Every night Alfie would come home with something new for you. Brilliant and fragrant flowers. A sweet from the bakery. A new necklace or bracelet that you just had to have. "Growing a baby is hard work love! Especially with my kids! Big ol brutes growing in there eh?"

Whenever you became shy or uncomfortable about your changing body, Alfie would just croon in your ear, "Oh my love, you are absolutely radiant. An angel from God yeah? No no, a goddess. You're an absolute goddess yeah?" He'll rub your swollen feet as you cry, kissing your ankles as you release your stress and worries about the day.

As you can imagine... naming the baby (or babies as he liked to remind you of the possibility) was an incredible ordeal. No name was suitable.

"No no, he'll get hit. If I knew a little boy with that name in school, I would decimate him." "Now treacle that doesn't even sound good with Solomons!" "Mmm no. I don't like the meaning of the name. Not a good omen." "Can't do that name. I killed a man with that name."

After six days!! You both are able to come to an agreement. Joseph for a boy. Chava, after his mother. In the evenings, Alfie takes to reading to the baby, referring to them by both names. "Alfie dearest, there's only one in there!" "No no treacle. I know they're both in there. You may only feel one, but that's because Joseph is just a little shy ain't you my boy? Chava is going to be a little spitfire, just like her mum. They're in there, I know they are."

At night, Alfie pulls you to his side as he always does, with a protective hand splayed over your swollen belly. It's getting harder for you to sleep at night, so many times you lie awake, staring at your husband, running your own hand over your stomach, feeling the kicks and turns.

The prospect of twins is near impossible. But Alfie... he is so certain. And sometimes... sometimes you feel an extra flutter. An extra bit of energy that is almost missed.

The labor is hard. Long. Your mother comes to help along with Sarah and the midwife, and you had never felt pains like that before. Despite Sarah's admonishment, Alfie pushes himself into the room, wanting to be right next to you the entire time. He never leaves your side, brushing the sweat off your brow, kissing your head, reminding you how strong you are.

After 12 hours of labor, Joseph finally makes his appearance in the world. A large baby, with fat cheeks and long limbs. After a few announcing cries, Joseph settles into the arms of his father, fast asleep after his long journey. Alfie rejoices with you, holding up his son with joy, "Joseph! My boy! Welcome my son!"

You smile, a final sense of relief washing over you, until you feel another push coming.

7 minutes later, Chava comes careening into Earth, as loud as the choirs of heaven. Alfie catches Chava, marveling at how such a little body can produce such a sound. As Alfie cleans her face he just whispers, "This one... she will be an opera star."

Alfie joins you in bed once everything is settled. You spend the rest of the evening in and out of sleep. When awake you and Alfie just take turns holding the babies, marveling in how precious they are. How absolutely beautiful they are. While you sleep, Alfie walks around the house with both in his arms, just talking to them.

“Now you might not know this yet my angels… but you have the absolute best mother in the world. No I know, I don’t know how I got to marry her. But she is perfect. The best. We gotta protect her yeah?”

Alfie is the one who gets up in the night. Doesn’t want you to do more than you have to. And you’re already doing so much. Plus, he feels like he missed so much already, waiting till he was older to have a family and all. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment.

Alfie becomes even more soft and tender with you. Each morning he starts his day worshipping you almost. Telling you how much he loves you, how much he loves your children, how much he would give to protect you.

But he does become more paranoid about the dangers surrounding him. There’s two men posted at the door of the house at all times now, and you aren’t to go anywhere without either him or another trusted member of the gang. Though you fought him on it at first, you relented when you saw the palpable fear in his eyes.

He loves to show off the kids. He’s just so proud. He loves how much they look like you. “Better for them eh treacle? Glad they got the more beautiful out of the two.”

And while they did favor your features, they both carried Alfie’s eyes. Both gentle Joseph and powerful Chava carry that roaring ocean behind those dark lashes that brought you to Alfie all those years ago.

As the years go by, you only grow to love each other more and more. And every risk and every trial is worth the beautiful dream you get to have with Alfie.

[s4mu-k41d3n]

“𝐁𝐔𝐖𝐀𝐍”

by juan karlos

TYPE 2 <> YAN!CHUUYA X GN!READER〰️sypnosis: he’s a lunatic for you. you, only you under the glamour of the yellow moon, under the white light that flicks each breezing step he took, so just only he will love you, yet did you hear his screams? your beauty, reaching the moon lurking at the dark soaring above.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 〰️disclaimer: obsessive behavior, stalking, violence, blood, mentions of guns, stalking, bad writing, ooc!chuuya?, sexual themes, not proofread.

౨ৎ₊ ⊹ 〰️notes: I still like have 1 drafts but i have no idea how to start with well ermmm. by the way the song is in a different language/in filipino, i apologize if you don’t understand the lyrics but i can’t think of any more songsD:

He’s yours, you’re his.

You look pretty to his bored sight, the blank eyes deceiving his filthy intentions he discreetly covers your eyes, blinding the rational truth he keeps dead end in his pockets. Are not you his precious little doll? Small words may be spoken, simple acts may be acted, yet it treasures a deeper meaning when he’s along with your bittersweet accompany. Something tingling in his rumbling stomach each time you’re close beside, before, after him. There’s no meaningless difference, merely how his eyes dilate and shape into a beating heart whenever he catches you in his borderline—is a golden routine for every single arise of light and dark. When the moon sets above from the abyss, wherein the sun reflects its glow to light.

He surely adores this part of the day, it never goes out missing in his crumpled calendar. Punctured to his cracked wall. Whether it be the clouds wail, the sun burns, the moon turns to dust—it’s a cycle he would never get tired of despite how many times it repeats in a two’s arrival nor leaving. Who was he to stop loving you? He’ll be the one to chase after you in a zigzag pathway even if led to the below. He’ll sacrifice the world for you, he’ll sacrifice himself just for you. He’d banish from existence just for you and he snaps from delusions.

The moon glamoured your beauty, painting him a canvas of elegance. Chuuya’s eyes shot towards your figure, how alluring you are to trap his heart in your lively aura. An unknown gaze observes, the way your blouse plays with your movements. The way your eyes glimmer in excitement, he watches from afar. He noticed a man in a suit, before you he stands. As if like he’d take you away from his presence, no, no he won’t accept that. Chuuya’s hands slip into his pocket as the glint dies down into envy. Jealousy, arises from his heat. He gritted his teeth, “I’ll break that man’s fucking spine.” His hands clenched, fist forming as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

The ceremony was along to finally cease, yet Chuuya remained vigilant. He pries to search for that man, who’d be the one receive you first before his? How dare he, he’ll acknowledge his efforts once he sees you again. Softening as he captures you sitting from a distance away. The ceremony came to a halt as guests exited the building, Chuuya leaned against the wall as he only bargained his upcoming plan to murder that disgusting man. He was an executive after all, it’d be an easy job. Won’t it? He excused himself in the crowds of passers as he pinpoints his target, silent as he followed the man’s tracks. Drawing a gun he pockets, lurking in the shadows. Blood spewed out of the victim’s head, falling to the ground as red spills the pavements. Chuuya withdraws his gun as he eyed the dead body lying on the ground as he flees from the scene.

Luckily, he’ll move on to the main part of the day. He strode over to your house as he peeks by the window. He saw you, pupils dilate as you sat on the couch. Removing your shoes you stood up, “Fuck…” Chuuya mumbles under his breath as you went into your bedroom. He knew what was about to come as he trailed towards the room, he’s entertained by your show. Breathing heavily as his hands trembled in anticipation. Your fingers pulling your blouse up as Chuuya’s eyes widened. Cloth dropping to the floor as he saw your semi-naked body. Your skin seemed so flawless, your curves displayed so beautifully. Your pants being slid off only to be in your undergarment as you fold your clothes. Little did you know, a shadow piques to stalk your prints. You let out a breathy sigh, stretching.

“You’re really mine, aren’t you…” Chuuya mutters as he looks at you up and down. So bad, his gloved hands desires to claw on your skin—fangs to bite on your flesh to claim you as his. You dressed a loose shirt and simple shorts, too bad now covering your body his thrill wore down. Your features, he just imagines his hands traveling all over your warmth, his lips pressed up yours as he savors your sweet taste. Tongue exploring your mouth as his sight closed, to just run his tongue along your skin, teeth biting into your delicate neck to be filled with his markings. Yet his time was up, he has to get back to the headquarters—now isn’t this fun? He groans in annoyance as he spared you one last glance of lust and obsession.

He’ll be back for tomorrow, he’s sure.

—