#i'm rooting for you santiago

[writefightandflightclub]

Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eleven (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: THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER YOU GUYSSSSSS. I'm emotional!

It has been a journey. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send. ILYSM!

Word count: 6.4k for this part. 

Weeks pass following the sojourn at the beach house, and you return to your new, blooming life. The strange, suffusing peace you’d felt when you and Santiago finally said your farewells - in more than words - has faded, a barbed tension instead taking root. The sense of resolution has all too quickly transitioned towards sleepless nights. To worrying about how the Lorea job will pan out, and whether Santiago and your other, dear squad mates will make it out unscathed - if at all. 

Your usual pleasures and distractions are little comfort, and it is worst when you are alone. You don’t even have the other dumbasses to lean on, the rub of all of them being gone at once hard to take. 

The nights are when you worry most intensely. When the world folds in on itself, the outside dark and the interior of your own thoughts all you have to rattle around in. Your house has never felt more empty to you, in fact, than in these moments. Most of all though, it feels empty without him; even though he’s never set foot in it. Your hard-won sanctuary feels, with each revolution of the clock, more and more like a collection of rooms and corridors boxing you in, and less and less like it had ever held the potential to feel like safety. 

Anything that you do in attempts to quell this gnawing worry only makes the hole inside you grow more and more apparent. The more you tend your porch planters, the more friends you have over for game day, the more you try to tell yourself that you have everything you need, right here? The further from the truth it all feels. 

The truth, in this moment, is that you’d burn down the entirety of this new life you’ve built if it would get him back safe. Back home safe. And it only makes you more certain that there is no “home” without him. No true feeling of sanctuary or peace while he is in danger. 

The more time that passes too, the more your worries for the mission eat away at you. Some nights, you find yourself sitting bolt upright in bed, the damp sheets tangled constrictively around your heat-tacky skin. Heart thudding hard in the roll cage of your chest. In these moments, that’s when you come closest to abandoning your new life entirely. To hastily stuffing a rucksack and jumping on the next plane to Colombia or Brazil, for all the damn good it would do. 

But you can’t do that. You can’t let yourself be dragged back into his world of danger.

You’d gotten out, and wasn’t that the point? To stay out? 

You know it’s for the best. Best for you. 

Still… there is something which really scares you about this mission. You can’t shake the sense they won’t come back quite the same after this. Can’t shake the impending sense of… finality about it. Santiago has always pushed for more. One more job. One more mission. Has always sought to go big or go home. You’ve always wished he would choose the latter option, by the way, and for some damn reason, he never has. Maybe he thinks he has nowhere like that to go. Maybe the bastard truly will run and gun until it kills him, and the thought of him ending that way…

The thought of him ending at all… 

It sends cold shivers down your spine. Spins a tight knot in your stomach which becomes denser by the day. 

You are mildly ashamed when you tuck Santiago’s old rosary beads beneath your pillow, fingertips unconsciously snaking under it during the night to grip them tightly. To hold something of his within your grip, when he seems so out of reach, is priceless to you. He’d gifted the beads to you years ago. For protection. Now, you curse yourself that they aren’t in his possession. You don’t even believe in any of that, for Christ’s sake. But it sure would comfort you all the same, you reckon. If he had some reminder on his person of how loved he is. Of the people counting on him to make it back. 

Of course, you’ve been checking your phone constantly. Even though they’d warned you repeatedly when they were about to go dark. You’ve braced for it. For a shock. A collision. Bad news. You’ve been unable to eat, sleep, think. And so, even when you finally receive Frankie’s cursory text that they’ve made it out -a simple helicopter emoji and a thumbs-up delivered from a burner cell- you can’t fully trust it.

That night, you still wake in a cold-sweat, chest heaving with ragged breaths. Feeling like the momentarily relief you’d felt must have been a dream, and that the visions of Santiago lifeless and cloaked in red are far more likely to be real. 

You won’t fully believe it, you think, until you hold him in your arms once again. See him with your own two eyes.

You need to see him again. 

The problem is, Santiago has never excelled at coming home. Has never excelled at joining the dots to realise he even has one at all. 

You don’t know when the next opportunity to do that -to see him, hold him - will be. Don’t know whether he’ll simply keep running into yet another mission, then the next and the next and the next, his path leading him further away from you all over again. 

You don’t imagine that he’ll find his way back any time soon. 

Turns out, you are wrong. 

***

You are baking in your kitchen when you notice him, the window forming a perfect frame as he appears, stood at the mouth of your driveway. His head is tipped up towards the eaves of your house. A hold-all is slung over his shoulder. His unseated ball cap is clutched solemnly in folded hands - as though he’s rocked-up outside of church after a long absence, ready to repent his sins. 

You aren’t able to tear your gaze away from him. It feels as though if you blink, he might simply vanish all over again, like you are so used to him doing. 

Feet planted to the tiles, and without turning your head - without even blinking - you say your sister’s name out loud. Like you used to when you were small and afraid you’d heard a monster in the dark. And, coming to your side, just like she’d always done then, she follows your fixed gaze through the window. Right to the spot where Santiago stands, bathed in golden fall light like an epiphany - nothing monstrous about him. 

“Oh, honey,” she says, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

When she does so, you realise you’ve been holding your breath. Realise that your ears are ringing and your pulse is thudding in your neck. When you finally suck in air, its passage is stunted, your chest fluttering around it. 

“Come on, kids,” your sister motions to your nephews, shooing them towards the living room with promises of cartoons and brownies. “We’ll give you some space,” she whispers across to you as she seamlessly shuffles the troops out. “Will you be okay?” 

You finally turn to her then. Manage to tear your eyes away from him. When you do, whatever expression is rendered  on your face causes her to shoot you a look of sympathy. 

At first, no sound comes out when you try to respond, your lips quaking around the words. You try again, and it is better, though still croaky. “I have no idea.” You don’t know what you are feeling. All you know, is that when you settle your hands on the edge of the counter, they are shaking. 

After a quick visual check, across the hall to the kids, once again your sister slots in at your side, squeezing your shoulder in reassurance. She dips to give you a quick kiss on the cheek, cupping the crown of your head. “Here. Splash your face,” she encourages, turning on the cold faucet and guiding you until you oblige, the shock of the cold water pooling in your cupped palms bringing you back to your body. The pleasant cool against your cheeks providing you some relief. You dry your face off on your sleeve. Rub your palms against the legs of your worn jeans. “I’ll be right in there.” She nods her head in the direction of the living room. “Any funny business, I’ll kick his damned ass all the way back to Colombia. Alright?” 

It occurs to you that you love her dearly. 

You nod and, satisfied, your sister vacates the kitchen. You watch her disappear through the mouth of the door frame, and, by the time you look back at Santiago, he is taking his first steps down your driveway. 

Pressing your palms to your cheeks, you look helplessly back and forth; between him, and the door through which your sister had retreated. You don’t know what to do, exactly. 

You weren’t expecting this. 

Santiago “Pope” Garcia never comes home. 

Santiago is never walking towards you; he is only ever running away. And now, here he is about to walk through your door? To make the house you’ve bought sing, for better or worse, with the pain of all the empty space still contained with it?

Like the Lorea job, this moment has a dreaded sense of finality to it, you think. Like this completely insignificant - yet wildly momentous - occasion is either about to slot everything you’ve ever wanted into place; or, to make any hope of it crumble into pieces.

Until so very recently, you’ve never had to think about how your story ends. Whether it will end up happy. You’ve simply been trying to survive the fraught middle. 

Well, here Santiago is. He’s made it back to you. 

You feel like you’re about to find out once and for all. 

And so, you do the only logical thing you can think to do. 

You run. 

*** 

This is the one, he thinks as he pulls up to park, checking the mailbox numbers against Frankie’s text. This is the house. 

He sits in the rental truck a good few moments longer than necessary before climbing out, grabbing up the navy hold-all from the backseat and turning towards the mouth of your driveway. 

This is the house. 

It’s the kind of house he’s always feared for what it represents - a commitment - and yet, now that he is stood here, looking-up at the structure in the flesh, it doesn’t look quite so fearsome as he’s always imagined. 

He gives it a scan over, looking for signs of you. Sure enough, he notes that your lawn is the most unkempt on the block. That your porch hanging-baskets, filled with colourful lantanas, are bursting and full. Your drive is cluttered with strewn kids’ bicycles. And, the front door is painted in a bold hue that only you would have picked out, stood in stark defiance of the glum, muted tones along the rest of the row. 

This is the house. 

And it is perfect. 

It is somehow still you, already - even from the outside. Santiago always thought that moving forward meant changing - losing something of yourself - but he is pleased to note he still recognises you in all of this. That, despite the white picket fence surrounding your garden, it no longer represents a perimeter he dare not cross. 

Even so, Santiago freezes there for a moment. He finds his feet won’t quite carry him willingly over the threshold from the street to your property. He takes a moment to drink it in instead. To look at what you’ve done for yourself. What you’ve created. What you’ve chosen. Santiago has always, on some level, worried that he couldn’t give you the life you deserved; but it’s clear to him now that he didn’t have to, because you’ve built that for yourself. 

As if anything could stop you. 

You have a yard. You have a white fucking picket fence wrapped around it. 

He half-snorts to himself. Shaking his head softly in disbelief. 

Still, it is there in the back of his head. That small, constant niggle. Even now, Santiago has half a mind to run. This house, to him, represents a place of innocence. Represents a new start and a freshness - one that he would never wish to soil with his bloodied hands. He tries to imagine being inside the house, with you, and yet all he can envision is himself dragging his red, bloody palms all along your pristine white walls. All he can see is him staining this life you have built. Bringing the blood and the dark inside, the way it inhabits the interior of him. 

He almost does too. Almost turns away. 

Old habits die hard. 

All of his fears and insecurities reliably surface, and he imagines the hold-all he is arriving with is the weight of all of his past baggage. He considers - for a moment - whether he would rather have the memory of you from the beachouse, asleep and naked, bathed in golden light and sea breeze, to be the last one he ever holds of you. Wonders if it might be eminently easier that way. 

He thinks about it; but then, he sees you through the window. In the kitchen. Turned away from him, but still unmistakable. 

He smiles wistfully. And he starts walking. 

He knows he can’t possibly turn away from you now. There’s no damn way that the back of your head can be the last image of you he sees; and so, he is driven onwards. Now, more so than ever, Santiago knows he needs to face you. 

He fixes his eyes on the path ahead, then. Continues walking, his thoughts abuzz with how he’s going to greet you. How he’s going to explain himself for turning up unannounced, somehow both early and overdue all at once. 

His thoughts are cut short and his plans entirely foiled, however, when a body slams up against him. For a split second he wonders whether he is getting football tackled to the floor, but he knows, even as you are crushed up against him and your face is indiscernible, that it’s you. He would know the weight and shape of you against his body anywhere.  

You run to him and you hug him, your cold cheek pressing up against his own. Your hands clawing into the back of his navy bomber, and your arms squeezing him with enough force that he abruptly - a bit winded from being body-slammed - drops the hold all to the floor like he’s finally letting go of all his bulllshit. Drops this precious cargo like there’s something far more precious to cling on to after all. 

You pull away from him as he coughs emphatically from the chest-slam, clearly examining him to see if he’s in one piece. Your eyes rove over every inch of him - like they used to do when you would “buddy up” to check for injuries in the field. Instinctively, he attempts to mentally catalogue his own injuries too. He finds that he doesn’t feel hurt at all, no; but that he does feel entirely raw. Vulnerable, like a singing open wound as he sees your face again, emotion shining in your eyes like a sea at the edge of his land. 

“You asshole! You’re okay? You’re really okay?” You tug on his lapels, hands fisting there like you’re trying to shake some sense into him. 

“Went off without a hitch,” he reassures, hoping you don’t notice the way his voice breaks as you drag him back into your arms again. This time, too, Santiago’s arms loop around you in return, his eyes slowly closing as he takes a deep inhale from where his face tucks neatly into the crook of your shoulder, your familiar scent unravelling the tight knot in the pit of his chest. He wasn’t hurt, no; but nor was he okay. Knew that he wouldn’t really be okay until he was by your side again. That he never really had been. 

“You got out clean?” you ask urgently, this time pulling away to smooth your palms over his lapels, undoing the disarray you’d caused. 

He nods. “We don’t leave messes,” he opts to say assuredly, channelling Benny for a boost of confidence, as though luck hadn’t had a considerable amount to do with it. 

“Yeah?” You examine his face for any sign he is smoothing over the truth of things, and he breathes a sigh of relief as his contrivedly neutral expression seems to satisfy you. “You got fucking lucky, you know that? Nothing got hairy?”

“Oh, it got fucking hairy. Cat almost tanked the chopper, for one thing.” 

You tut emphatically. “Bull shit. That’s Cat slander and I won’t have it. Tell Ironhead to get the bastard better equipment next time, huh?” 

Santiago likes this. Likes that no matter how long it’s been, you always greet one another like you’re mid conversation. Like despite the miles and countless moments which have passed, you were just in the middle of something. 

Still… the suggestion of a “next time” drives a wedge through the space between you. 

Next time. 

One more mission; then another, and another, and another. Right? 

Running in goddamn circles. Chasing his tail. 

You sniff, and he watches your valiant attempt to shake it off, still staring at him with a misty look in your eye like he’s come back from the dead. You fold your arms across your chest, perhaps in efforts to subdue your initial, reckless affection. You toss your head over your shoulder, towards the wide open front door. “So. Y’ coming inside?” You nod down at his hold-all. “Or… do you have somewhere else to be?” 

Santiago purses his mouth. Drops his gaze to the hold-all and stoops to wrap his fingers around the rough, looped handles. He feels the itch in his feet again. The urge to run. Sees the window open - his chance to escape. It wouldn’t take much. An easy, casual: yeah, I have a flight to catch. His age-old tricks. But at the same time he sees that window open, he sees your open door in view. The warm glow and invitation of your house beckoning him inside. The warm glow and invitation of you. 

How could he possibly have anywhere else to be? 

“I’d love- I mean, yeah. If I’m not intruding.” 

You simply roll your eyes and -he’s pretty sure- mumble “idiota” under your breath. But, before he can wonder, you are taking him by the hand and leading him into the house. 

He follows. 

It’s a while since he’s followed you anywhere, but he does it now without a second thought. 

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

Still. It should be a relief of sorts and yet… He feels his pulse quicken. Feels nerves twist in the pit of him - and  he knows fine well it’s illogical. Knows it makes zero sense to fear a physical building. 

But… no, that’s not quite it, is it? That was never it. His whole adult life, Santiago has been afraid of something far deeper than that, hasn't he? 

Those feelings and fears, however, begin to drop away like leaves from a fall tree the moment he steps inside. From the moment you fuss his jacket off of his shoulders and hang it on the single empty coat hook, as though there’s been a space reserved for him all along. From the moment the wafted scents of home-baking and you fill his lungs he feels… 

He feels… not quite ready to name what he feels yet; but he does acknowledge the lump lodging in his throat when he crosses the threshold, enveloped by the life you have been living without him. 

You beckon him further inside, trying, to no avail, to prize the hold-all from his grip, so instead, tutting and letting him hang on to it anyway. Tugging the baseball cap from off of his head and throwing it in a spot right next to the key bowl, right before you instinctually ruffle his flattened, graying curls free. 

You chat aimlessly - a natural and familiar commentary. He listens, but he’s also scanning, as per usual. Observing. Drinking the details of this house in. Taking in each framed photo arranged along the hall, curling up the stairs in a timeline of sorts. A record of your life. And, as he assesses, he stops dead in his tracks in front of one particular photo. It’s a buddy from years back. A friend you’d both lost to an IED. Above that, there’s a picture of you and Will standing jubilantly on top of a humvee, which makes his face split with a grin even as tears are balling in his eyes from the prior flood of memories. Beside that, there’s a goofy picture of you and him together, taken at his late mom’s 60th birthday. That one, in particular, makes him unsure whether to laugh or cry or both. 

You come to stand beside him. Silently. Solemnly - as he saws a hand self-consciously across his stubble, not knowing quite how to feel amidst the concoction of varied emotions lodging in him like schrapnel. Fragments. 

Meanwhile, you bump his shoulder with yours, before joining him in concentrating wistfully on the wall of photos suckering his attention. 

Then, he finally places the feeling. He feels… like an idiot. For not seeing it before. 

It’s your life, he realises. All set out here. Summarised. Catalogued. 

But it’s his life too. It’s a shared life. He recognises most of the faces, events, occasions, and locations pictured. Feels the memories and emotions attached -his and yours, first-hand, second-hand - as his eyes tick over the display. Christ. He’s spent so long trying to run from you, hasn’t he, that he’s neglected to recall all the times you have walked side-by-side. He’s spent so long in staunch refusal that he could give you the life that you deserved that he’s neglected to realise that all this time, you were already building one together. 

And oh boy. What a messy and complicated and hard and fucking beautiful life it has been. 

All of that - he realises - is exactly why. Exactly why being here with you now, in this house he’s never even set foot in before, feels exactly like coming home. 

For a moment, he looks at you, and -struck by you, like a gut punch - Santiago doesn’t know what to say. Quickly though, he remembers. Remembers that with you, it always feels like you’re right in the middle of a conversation.  

He takes an emphatic sniff. “You’re baking?” 

“Heh. Yeah.” You nod towards the living room door, from behind which a kerfuffle of cartoons and chatter is sounding, he clocks. “My nephews are here.” You place a finger over your beautiful lips and lean in, like you’re telling him a deep, dark secret. “I bought a packet mix.” 

Santiago can feel his eyes glowing at you like headlights as your cheeky, full-beam smile shines back at him, but suddenly, he’s no longer particularly inclined to hide it. 

“So?” You press gently, as his knuckles almost whiten from gripping the hold-all so tight. “What brings you to this neck of the woods, anyway?” 

His mouth drops open wordlessly. For a moment, Santiago legitimately forgets. Forgets that he hasn’t always been here. He forgets, in fact, that he’s here for anything besides falling to his knees and clinging to you. Anything besides weeping for joy with his head buried against your stomach. Holding you so tightly, to make up for all of the times he’s so willingly let you go. 

Fortunately, the weight of the hold-all tugging at his arm reminds him of one more reason, which, now that he’s here, actually feels a hell of a lot more like an excuse. “I’ve brought something for you.” He nods towards the kitchen. “Can we..?” 

The kitchen is the heart of the home. It’s the heart of your home, and it’s the place where so far - recently - Santiago has tried to possess you, claim you, blame you, plead with you, and appease you. As though your body carries the memory of that you nod, tension pinching your face, and he clocks a swallow of apprehension darting abruptly down your throat. Still, you gesture for him to enter, and he follows closely behind. 

“It’s weird that the kitchen’s at the front of the house, right?” You waffle, banaly. “But I like it. Feels more open. I like looking out at the front yard when I-”

“-Cook-up a storm?”

You scoff; not likely. “Throw away my pizza boxes.” 

With your quip, mirth lights his eyes; yet - as ever - Santiago remains laser-focussed on his mission. He lifts up the hold-all, and plonks it down right on top of your kitchen island. “Here.” He nods towards the bag as you eye it sceptically. 

“What? Did you bring me your fucking laundry?” 

“Christ,” he scolds, even as your comment raises a warm chuckle. “No. It’s your share.”

You exhale softly through your raised palms as realisation dawns on you. “Santi. What the fuck?”

You cross to the bag and unzip it, mouth dropping into an “o” and eyes bugging as you reveal stacks and stacks of neatly bundled cash inside. Immediately, you shake your head, holding your palms up in the air and thrusting them away from your body. “No. Hell no.” His face drops. “I didn’t do anything to earn this.” 

Oh, that’s your issue? On the contrary. You’ve earned this a hundred times over. “Oh, really? Remind me. How many times did you get shot, huh?”

You peer down to the bag again in disbelief. Santiago would continue to emphasise all that you deserve; but he can tell that you’ve already tuned him out anyway. He can transparently see the calculations ticking over in your head. What this money might mean for you. What you could do with it. Conversely, the strings that could feasibly be attached. The blood on it. 

“It wasn’t just me. We all agreed.” He nods decisively, brows pinching down. “You and Tom get a share too. We wouldn’t be anywhere without you.” His voice breaks. “Shit. I wouldn’t be…” He simply couldn’t picture his life without you. Doesn’t even want to begin to try. 

You drag both hands back over your head, elbows jutting out at sharp angles. “Santiago. I can’t keep this.” 

He steps closer to you. Waits until your arms drop and cups your elbows with his sure palms. “So donate it. Set up a college fund for the boys. Whatever.” His eyes grow big and unusually earnest as he searches yours. “But would you please take it?” 

He knows it’s hardly a drop in the ocean. That there is no way he could begin to repay all you’ve done for him. All he knows is that he wants you to have it. All he knows is that you deserve anything and everything he can give you, even if it’s never going to be enough. 

Your hands are shaking slightly when you bring them up to your mouth, but he can see the beginnings of the cautious, giddy smile which eventually claims you. As you begin to accept this is really happening. 

“You brought cash? Seriously? You motherfucker.”

His throat bobs with a deep chuckle. “Why not? Wasn’t it you who said you always wanted to fuck on a huge pile of money?”

“I’m almost 1000% confident that was Benny.” 

“Meh. Doesn’t hurt to have the option,” he teases, but once again, you’re no longer listening to him - not really. Your fingers are carefully gripping the lip of the bag and peeling it open, finally letting it sink in. 

“Thank you,” you say resonantly, dragging your eyes up to him only after you have managed to push the words out. Crossing to him. Wrapping your arms around him, your fingers tracing over the ridged scar at the back of his neck, your voice turning wet. “But… You know that this means nothing to me, right?”His hand moves slow and steady, up and down your back. “You know that all I wanted was for you to come back?” 

He holds you more tightly then, as your emotions begin to spill over, tiny fractures in your voice. You subdue it, though. You clear your throat. Compose yourself a little too quickly for his liking, his body missing the warmth of you immediately as you pull away.  

“Since we’re doing gifts though. I’ve actually got something for you too.” You clasp your hands together, pleading. “And you have to promise me you’ll take it.” 

You move only once he’s nodded, your serious expression compelling him into acquiescence. You don’t need to go far to retrieve it. Instead, you reach to fumble something out of your jeans pocket.

His eyebrows leap up towards his hairline. “Fuck me. Are these-?” 

It knocks him for six as you unfurl a string of familiar black rosary beads, the loop penduluming from your thumb as you hold them out, offering them to him. Offering them back to him. 

“You remember?”

He scoops his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, stubble bristling. He answers your question without even answering. “You kept them.”

“Well. Yeah.” You grab hold of his hand. Fumble his palm open and thrust the beads into it, curling his fingers back around them until he grasps on to them tightly. “And I don’t want you to be without them anymore, okay?” 

Santiago is lost for words - his mouth agape. He shuffles from foot to foot in disbelief for a moment, before clamping his hand over yours, his grip as warm and sure as it’s ever been. 

God. 

You’ve loved him, haven’t you? You’ve loved him whether he believed that he deserved it or not. You’ve loved him every single step of the way. You’ve loved him even when he was difficult and stubborn. When he was in the throes of grief. When he was bleeding out from a stab wound.

You have loved him at his best and at his worst; and goddamn it, he has loved you back. 

He didn’t do so before, when the thought had first occurred to him, but he does now. He does drop to his knees on the cold, tiled kitchen floor, wrapping his arms around your middle. He does bury his face in your stomach, holding you as tightly as possible. 

He drops to his knees as though he’s finally repenting of his ‘sins’. He holds you now, to make up for all of the times he so willingly let you go. To show you - he hopes - how he never wants to let you go again. 

Meanwhile, his gesture appears to punch the air from your lungs. Your hands hover -uncertain- just moments from him, and then, as you inhale, you must find you already know what to do. Your fingertips dip into his hair. Your palms cradle his head. He feels tears wet his cheeks as he buries his face in your soft, sweater adorned stomach. He silently rues every single time he thought he needed one more mission - and the next, and the next, and the next. Wonders how he’d believed all this time he was built for brutality, when, although his hands were trained to kill, they were made to love you gently.

“Santiago.” He screws his eyes shut at the softness in your voice as you sound his name, a roughly hewn sob gently wracking his chest. You say his name in a way he’s never heard it spoken, and before he knows it, you are on your knees with him, tipping his chin up with careful fingers until his wet eyes meet your soft, warm, bathtub gaze. 

You stroke your palm down the side of his face and you nod, slowly, tears beading in your eyes too. 

He knows what your touch is telling him now. What it has been telling him all along even whilst he was still too stubborn to hear it. 

It’s telling him… That this is what safety feels like. 

That he’s home. 

You are his home, and what’s more; he is welcome. 

He surges up onto his knees, pressing his chest to yours, winding his broad hands into your hair to pull you into an achingly raw, desperate kiss. 

Your lips are a door. Your mouth a corridor. Your heart is a room. Your chest is his roof.  He wants to live in you. Bury himself inside you. Wants to walk barefoot on your tender carpet. Wants to fill his chest with the warm rumble of a kettle. Wants to step into you like a warm bath. To be covered by you. Held by you. You are his walls. His sanctuary. All roads lead here to you, to this house; and they always have, even when he’d felt so lost. 

He has never been home before; but this must be how it feels, he thinks, to finally stop running. 

He kisses you, his urgency dissolving into softness like sugar into water. You kiss him back. It’s a sweet, tender thing, as delicate as the tears beading in his lashes.

“Santiago. Christ, your knees. Get up. Please.” You’re crying too, he realises. Crying as though you’re as glad as he is that he has finally arrived somewhere that does not ask him to wound himself. You cup his face again, concern in your eyes, but he slides his hand over yours. Tucks the rosary beads into his pocket, an item far more priceless than the - now forgotten - bag of money on the counter. 

It has been a long road. 

It has been a long time.

It has been a lifetime, and he sees now, that his road was always leading him to you. 

Your gaze flits all over his face. “Heyyy,” you soothe, with a softness he finally feels he deserves. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah. I…”

“What?”

He fumbles a tear away from his cheek, a bright feeling bursting out of his chest. “Can I…?” He laughs, it feels so preposterous. “Do you mind if I… stay for a little while?” 

Your eyebrows briefly pump up in surprise; but even so you smile fondly at him, answering his question without answering. “You’re an idiot, you know that?” 

You rise together to standing, chest to chest and still hovering moments from a kiss; and yet, neither of you are closing the distance. Not yet, not now, and it’s… actually a wonderful thing. To wait. It feels suddenly like there is time now. For the first time in Santiago’s life, it feels like there is a future. A future for him, instead of isolated moment after moment, grasped in haste. Instead of one mission to the next, to the next. So, instead of kissing you again; more; deeper; Santiago reaches up, the crook of his curled forefinger gently tracing the line of your jaw until you flutter your eyes at him bashfully. Until his mouth twists into a lopsided, disbelieving smile. 

Then: “Oh-my-God-I’m-sorry-” your sister blunders as she unceremoniously cracks the door, poking her head rather unsubtly around it. “We were, uh, just wondering what to do. We were gonna put a movie on but…” - she looks pointedly between the two of you and clocks your proximity - “We can always clear out if loud sex is about to ensue.” 

Next, she catches a glimpse of the bag full of money and her eyes bug, though she abruptly tries to cover it. 

You tut loudly at your sibling. “Jesus. Would you either come in or get out? You’re like a little floating head.” 

She opts to step gingerly around the door, looking all the more awkward for it. 

“Hi,” Santiago greets warmly, moving in for a heartfelt hug which catches your sister even further off-guard. 

“Oh, hi!” she says (as though she’s only just noticed him) before asking - maybe with malice, or maybe through sheer force of habit - “How long are you sticking around for?”

Santiago looks sheepish for a moment. 

After all, he doesn’t want to tell you just yet. 

No - he doesn’t want to tell you that he’s signed a six-month lease on an apartment downtown. That he’s arranged to get therapy from a guy Will recommended. That he’s started working his networks and shifting his money around so he can finally make the leap into consulting. That he’s pretty sure - as sure as he’s ever been about anything - that he wants to marry you. 

Of course, he isn’t seriously entertaining the idea that he can simply turn up and upend your life. Doesn’t expect -would never expect- to have everything laid out on a platter for him. But, this time, he at least has the strength to stick around. To find out once and for all what might be next, after so long going round in circles. 

That’s why he doesn’t even want to tell you at all. Not yet. Not now. 

Instead, he simply wants to show you. 

“A movie sounds good.” He twines his fingertips with yours and your sister’s eyes bug harder at that than they had at the hold-all. “I mean. If I won’t be intruding?” 

He looks to you for approval, and he hates that, right now, the prevailing emotion he can read on your face is surprise. 

“You can really stay?!” 

It’s a far bigger question. 

That much is obvious. A question he realises you’ve been asking him for a long time, in a whole host of different ways. 

Looking at you, here and now, it’s so alien to him that he wouldn’t. That he would ever run from you; bail out; seek out other women; skip town; bury his feelings. All of that bullshit. 

In his time, Santiago has jumped out of planes; has run into burning buildings; launched himself towards enemy fire. But has he ever let himself love you so wholly and recklessly? Has he ever been as brave as that? 

So, Santiago simply gazes back at you. Smiles, rehearsed crinkles radiating from around his warm, good-morning eyes. 

This time, he answers your question. He thinks you finally deserve to hear it. After all; you deserve everything - and so you definitely deserve this. 

“I can stay.” 

You don’t even respond -not in words - and it might be because finally, finally, there is nothing between you which remains unsaid. You simply squeeze his hand, just a little tighter. 

Santiago has known you for so many years. Has known you as a soldier; a friend; a lover. 

He finally has the courage to see you all at once, and, in the years ahead, he can’t wait to know you in all the other ways there are. 

You lead him through the door; and he follows. 

It always was easy to follow you. To love you. It was the running that was hard. 

He doesn’t know exactly what will happen next; but one thing’s for sure.

You’ll always be his Ride or Die. 

THE END 

[rapha-reads]

Things from Interview With The Vampire s02e04 (ep11) I noticed:

[Edit 1: Actually this turned into a live-commenting, sorry]

[Edit 2: Keep in mind, I haven't read the books, so all of these observations are born from the show itself and the few (lots of) spoilers and narrative plot points I've gleaned here and there.]

Both Claudia and Louis are so bored with the coven. Or maybe bored isn't the word, but... Done? Frustrated and annoyed? Restless? Louis because he never intended to join and so cares not all for all their internal affairs. Claudia because she thought she'd finally have the life she wanted and instead is being forced to relive the tragedy of her life day after day.

And Armand rejoices in drawing them further apart, scolding and punishing Claudia while begging scraps from Louis.

And he's soooo jealous. The face he makes when Louis starts explaining what Dreamstat feels like is priceless.

Also, personal theory: either Louis is indeed suffering psychotic breaks after psychotic breaks, or just manifesting his own version of Lestat because he doesn't want to let go. Or Lestat can astral project and has been stalking Louis from the moment they left New Orleans.

The coven is tearing itself apart. And normally I'd add "and Armand isn't even seeing it/taking it seriously yet" but given that the whole of them are unreliable narrators and that Armand is a shady ass bitch whose only agenda is himself, I'd say he's well aware and purposefully making it worse.

I can't make sense of Santiago yet, though. Is he jealous? Ambitious? Is he fond of Claudia? Does he hate her? He definitely hates Louis, but is it just jealousy or real antipathy? Oh, but Louis is still my precious special kitten and that speech about Paris, art and modernity, as a contemporary culture student, made me vibrate a little out of my chair, and Santiago clowning him makes me want to claw his face. We get it, you hate him and you think he's pretentious, now can you shut up and let us talk a bit more about the art scene in Paris post-WW2 and why Louis is absolutely right, Picasso isn't all that impressive in the end? Thanks. Bacon tho, Bacon is interesting. My contemporary art teacher last year was excruciatingly boring, but he had a boner for both Louise Bourgeois and Bacon and we spent several hours on them (and not nearly enough about Mapplethorne, alas). Anyway. I feel ya, Lou. I have been called pretentious too for simply getting excited about art, culture and folkore.

I'm rooting for Louis and Claudia to kill them all off and run away to Italy. I know it won't happen, but one can dream, eh.

Is Armand messing up with both Daniel by getting into his mind and Louis by switching the photos? Interesting. Two people who have a shitton of issues stuck with a sadistic, insecure and bitter control freak who's been pulling the threads since way before anyone realises. And Louis is so lost in his trauma and grief and anger, he trusts Armand and doesn't see what's happening and been happening to him for 70 years, while Daniel is just a sad, sick old man who thinks he knows his life and what his future entails. Armand is definitely having fun.

"Je n'aime pas fenêtre quand fermée" is NOT FRENCH, MY EARS. I will be picky, I don't care for artistic licence. Correct sentence would be "je n'aime pas les fenêtres quand elles sont fermées". Admittedly, if it goes into a song, you'd have to respect the length of the line and all those musical measures. But still. You could shorten the numbers of syllables by dropping the language register: "j'aime pas les f'nêtres quand elles sont fermées" ; from 12 or 13 to 9, the original line being 8 or 9. Depending on whether you say "je-n'ai-me-pas" or "je-n'aim-pas" and "fe-nê-tres" or "fe-nêtres". Anyway. I'm sure the writers had those discussions (I hope; hey, AMC, hire me, I'm a good proofreader and I speak 5 languages).

Me: oh, Louis isn't even bothering now, he's directly talking to... Wait, is Lestat eating that photo? If it's Dreamstat: the hell is going on in your head, Louis? If it's Astral Lestat: that is certainly a choice, my friend.

"Barely Balthasar", LMAO, Lestat I fucking love you. Poor Balthasar always gets forgotten in adaptations. Nope, we're not here to talk R&J, moving on.

Armand: "this is my tragic backstory. Feel pity for me. I'm the good guy." Me: yeaaah, how much of this is actually real? And, uh, no, like Lestat said: ha! You're a storyteller and a conman, Armand. You weave your story to pluck at the heart's threads of your audience, modulating it to their sensibilities to better serve your own interests and your plans. What are those interests, these plans? Hell if I know. But I absolutely do not trust you at all.

HANDS OFF CLAUDIA OR I'LL BITE

"The wilderness that is our daughter" have I said lately how much I love Lestat.

Oh, hello, the Loustat scene on the bench just broke my heart, which is funny if you consider that that's just Louis breaking up with himself. Also, do we consider Louis knew about the initials in the pocket, and Dreamstat is saying what Louis wants him to say, or is it another unreliable narrator Louis, or is it Lestat himself...?

Aw, going from the Loumand scene on the bench to "toxic gay divorce with body count" sure is a tonal shift. Lmao. You're losing your touch, Armand. Louis' awakening. Daniel's awakening... San Francisco next, that will be fun. Excited to see how they've changed that part, knowing it's the red thread of the first book.

...

Oooh, that got long. Apologies. I really need to sit and read those books.

[maretinelli]

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE HEART

Jake Peralta X fem!reader

Summary: In which Jake and y/n make a bet on who can arrest the most criminals and y/n has to fulfill the agreement at the end of the shift.

Words: 1.8K+

Warnings: I don't think anything has as much impact as the other, drinks and criminals I think. But not explicit.

Author: First of all, English is not my language, I apologize for any mistakes that may be in the story. And second, I am loving writing for it, and I still have many ideas.

Y/s: Surname

MASTERLIST

Jake and Y/n had been best friends since they were little. They and Gina grew up together in the same neighborhood and practically every weekend they spent at Jake's grandmother's house playing with board games or just listening to Gina talk about how good she would be if she were a Michael Jackson dancer.

Years passed and the three of them worked together at the same police station. Jake and Y/n became more than just friends, they were recently in the phase between hookups and boyfriends. No one knew what they were, but what they had made them both comfortable.

When the year began, Jake and the detective made a bet to see who could arrest the most criminals.

If Y/n won, Jake would have to change desks at the police station—hers was across from Scully's and near the bathroom, definitely terrible—and sell his Mustang.

And if Jake won the bet, Y/n would have to dress up as Bonnie Tyler and perform Total Eclipse of the Heart in the place Jake chose.

In short, neither agreement favored either other, which made them more competitive.

Today, officially after their turn, the bet would end and one of them would have to fulfill the agreement.

"Good morning squad. This morning, I'm going to assign you some work to be done this week. Boyle, you'll be on Mary Lauren's case, the homicide case. Rosa will be on Santiago's case on Jack Rubens."

"That's right, the second one is already off to a good start." Rosa lets out a sideways smile, while she had her feet on the table and Amy was clapping silently.

"Jake and Y/n, you worked together today on the Ryan investigation-" Terry doesn't finish speaking.

"NO!!" Peralta and Y/s scream together, making the squad jump and they look at each other.

"What do you mean, no? You love working together and it always works." The sergeant asks.

"Today their bet ends, about who can arrest the most criminals in a total of 6 months. And they are tied" Charles says and points to the board on the wall and everyone looks.

Detective Y/s: 75

Detective Peralta: 75.5

"Why seventy-five and a half?" Sergeant asks.

"It's just that my last criminal was a dwarf," Jake says smiling and the squad shakes their heads holding back laughter. "High five!!"

An excited Charles does a Hi-five with Peralta.

"This is cheating" y/n questions, sitting next to Rosa.

"You say that because you've never caught a mini man, honey." Jake turns and smiles at the woman.

"Okay, fine. Santiago and Y/s are together on Jack's case and their respective cases. Peralta and Diaz on Diana Fox's case."

"Damn, I wanted Jack's case," Rosa grumbles. "I was rooting for Y/n to lose, but now I want Jake to sell that Mustang, just so I can lose the coolest case in the precinct."

"Hey!!" Y/n shouts indignantly at Diaz.

"That's it for now, dismissed" Sergeant says and the people start to leave the room.

"Ready to lose, my honey?" Jake comes closer to Y/n, making her roll her eyes and smile.

"At first, 'honey candy' sounded strange"

"Yeah, really. I only realized it after it came out of my mouth." Jake grimaces.

"And second, you're the one who's going to sell the Mustang and trade tables with me."

Jake laughs before grabbing his jacket and leaving the police station with Rosa.

"You're the one who thinks, my dear. You're the one who thinks." He smiles crookedly and leaves.

Y/n shakes her head and sits down next to Amy's desk so they can work.

"What's going on between you two? I know you already said you hooked up, but what's up?"

Y/n smiles, going through the paperwork.

"I don't know, we're just...going with the flow. We go out, we meet up. But there's nothing officially imposed."

"Did you guys have sex?" Amy whispers to Y/N.

The detective looks up.

"AMY!!"

"Sorry, sorry. My curiosity got the better of me," she smiled, looking at the computer.

They are quiet for a while.

"...yes..." Y/n responds softly before standing up and grabbing more papers about the case.

"OH, I KNEW IT!!" Amy screams and everyone in the station looks at her. "I'm sorry..."

•••••••••••••••

"I had no idea it took the boys two months to locate him and we caught him on the first day of the case. Man, we're awesome" Amy says proudly of them and pats y/n on the shoulder, who smiles.

"Girl power," Y/n says, as they leave the criminal in custody. "Now take a good look, Detective Y/s 76, and Jake Peralta 75."

"75.5" Gina yells from her desk.

"That's it, whatever. But he's still behind" Y/n smiles evilly and focuses on more cases, so she could arrest more criminals in a day than Jake.

It doesn't take long for Jake to enter the enclosure with Diaz. He was smiling too much.

"Detective y/n?!"

She turns around and is shocked.

"I see the board has turned against me. However, Jake here managed to arrest five criminals at once. Who's the stud now?" Jake approaches the board and puts down 80.5.

"You're kidding, right? Rosa!!"

"I have nothing to do with this. What's worse is that the idiot over there managed to arrest those five at once." Diaz points to the criminals who were now being temporarily arrested at the police station.

Y/n makes a face and Jake smiles, walking past her and kissing the woman's cheek.

Hours passed and the end of the shift was coming to an end. The score was 82.5 for Jake and 79 for Y/n.

The woman was on the streets chasing four criminals, who she located along with Amy.

"Fuck...we lost them" Y/n slaps her hand on her thigh and holsters her gun again.

"Hey, it's okay. We can locate them again, they're not that smart at hiding," Amy replies, while looking at Y/n furiously.

"That's not even the worst of it. It's already 7:15 and there are 15 minutes left until our shift ends and I have to spend another few years at the same table next to Scully." Y/n complains, walking to the police car.

"Oh no, really. The bet" Amy remembers and makes a face in Y/n's direction, as she gets into the passenger seat.

"Exactly. I'm sure Jake is already waiting for me at the police station with lots of jokes to play on me."

Amy holds back her laughter and looks forward.

It took about 10 minutes to get to the police station, and there was no way Y/n could turn the score around with 5 minutes left until the end of the shift and win the bet.

"God bless me and let's go" y/n sighs getting out of the car and turning the car key in her fingers.

Amy enters right after her and when they arrive on their floor, Jake had decorated the room with a giant poster that said 'Congratulations Loser' and a large photo of the detective.

Y/n enters the enclosure shaking her head and Jake had a horn in his right hand, confetti paper in the other and everyone in the squad was wearing party hats.

"You guys are kidding me" she looks at everyone.

Her heels clicked as she walked, and the bulletproof vest she wore beneath her badge around her neck made her even more attractive, making Jake hesitate to throw the confetti at her.

"Hey Jake...the confetti" Boyle whispers to his best friend.

"Oh yeah, true. She messed me up a bit" Jake agrees. "Congratulations loser" he yells and throws the confetti on top of y/n. Making her close her eyes and just accept the moment.

Peralta approaches the woman, coming face to face with her.

Y/n smiles sideways as he approaches.

"You really thought you were going to get away with this, didn't you?" Jake said seductively, as he put a party hat on her.

"Yeah," y/n smiles. "I really thought so, you funny guy."

"Do you guys need a room? Can we get out of here?" Diaz asks.

"Keep it to yourself" Jake points at Diaz and she smiles. "Charles!! The costume!"

"Oh no, not Bonnie Tyler."

"Oh yes, Bonnie Tyler yes!!" The squad exclaims happily.

"Amy, even you?" Y/n says indignantly.

"Sorry," she whispers, smiling.

After Y/n changed and became Bonnie, Jake took her to perform at the bar they all frequented and of course the squad went after her, to see Y/n pay off the bet.

"I'm hating this tight outfit," Y/n complains.

"Thank Gina, she lent it to you for your performance" Jake says making everyone except y/n laugh, while holding her hand to go down the stairs and get to the bar.

"Gina, then I hate you"

"Hate nothing, sweetie"

Arriving at the bar, everyone grabs their favorite drinks and sits at the table that was right in the center of the bar.

"If I curl up here, will Jake forget about the bet?"

"I don't think so." Boyle looks at Y/n who was crouched under the table.

"Attention everyone!!!" Jake yells in the center of the bar and everyone looks at him.

"You're kidding me" The detective mumbles and the squad looks at her smiling.

"My girlfriend lost a bet today and will have to sing Total Eclipse of the Heart dressed as Bonnie Tyler in front of you" Jake smiles and looks at Y/n, who was now standing smiling cynically.

"Girlfriend?" The squad asks doubtfully.

"Yeah. And before she sings, I wanted to make it official. Honey, come in the middle." Jake holds out his hand to her.

Y/n widens her eyes and smiles, not believing what he was about to propose.

"He's going to ask her out, with her dressed up as Bonnie Tyler?!! She looks just like Peralta" Amy says before taking a sip of her beer.

"He told me earlier. I can't wait for the proposal. I hope she's dressed up in that inflatable dinosaur costume." Diaz smirks and sips his drink too.

"Rosa, poor thing," Amy says, holding back a smile at the thought.

"My dear y/n, my childhood best friend and work partner. I could tell you so much here that you wouldn't have time to sing." He says kneeling down and they laugh, y/n rolls her eyes laughing. "My sweet girl, love of my life. Will you go out with me? Like this, dressed as Bonnie Tyler?"

Y/n laughed.

"I wanted to say no. But I love you too much for that. So yes, I will be your girlfriend dressed as Bonnie Tyler."

The crowd at the bar starts to scream in euphoria and Jake puts the ring on her finger, before pulling the detective into a passionate kiss.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I've done my job. Let's hear our losing bet do her job. Speak up, my dear," Jake shouts, sitting down in the chair and looking at Y/N.

"First off, I'm telling you Jake will be sleeping on the couch for at least three weeks. And Gina, I hate those overalls."

With that, Y/n complies with what she agreed with Jake.

Author: Guys, I probably (I don't know) wrote Captain Holt's name wrong in the stories 🤣🤣 I ended up putting "Bolt", but I don't remember if I mention him here. If it's in the story, forgive me hahahaha.

[everythingvolturi]

Felix Volturi Character Analysis - Part 1: An intelligent soldier plagued by insecurity

━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━ ◦ ❖ ◦━━

Compensating for a deeply rooted insecurity:

Unlike most of the Volturi guards, Felix does not possess a ‘gift’. He is instead kept around for his combat and battle techniques. In a coven that rewards powerful and unique supernatural gifts, and appears to be hierarchical with cloak colours prominently displaying everyone’s ranking, this would not be a comfortable position to be in. 

I do not think Felix is easy to replace, hence why he is still a high-ranking member; to survive this long in the Volturi he must have demonstrated exceptional skills. However, he is replaceable because it is possible to overpower and supersede him through training and hardwork. Without a supernatural power like most other guard members, he will constantly need to fight for his position and prove his worth. 

“If there had been one better, the Volturi would have traded up. Aro didn’t surround himself with second best.” (Breaking Dawn).

We know at least one other permanent member who relies on their battle skills for a position in the Volturi (Santiago), and I do think Aro actively cultivates a competitive culture amongst these combat vampires in order to incentivise them to work harder and keep them on their toes. 

A way to regain power and control:

Consequently, it makes sense for Felix to seek power elsewhere to regain his self-worth. In this case, it manifests in the form of a flirtatious persona, and an almost ‘impulsive’ lust for bloodshed. 

1- Flirting: Felix consistently adopts a promiscuous and flirty act. We see him flirting with Gianna in New Moon, with Bella at the end of Eclipse, and during the confrontation in Breaking Dawn. 

“As Felix passed the desk, he winked at Gianna, and she giggled.” (New Moon) “Felix looked up. He let his hood fall back slightly so that I could see him wink at me and smile.” (Eclipse) “Felix chuckled. “You look good. Immortality suits you……” “Felix winked.” (Breaking Dawn).

I do not think he is genuinely attracted to them - he would happily murder them…Instead, he flirts because he can. It enables him to regain a sense of control, and with his otherworldly vampire beauty, most human women would reciprocate. For a vampire in his position, this constant validation would be flattering.

2- Fighting: Felix craves violence, and when appropriate, he actively provokes opponents to initiate a fight.  

[Edward]: "Then I'm afraid that I'll be unable to accept Aro's invitation, Demetri." "That's just fine," Felix purred. (New Moon)

This makes sense because combat is an area he excels at. It is his way of proving his worth to the Volturi, and again, to exercise control over his opponents.

Underestimated Intelligence: 

However, although his actions might fuel his ego, Felix is not blindly impulsive, and behind all his actions there is always a greater purpose for the benefit of the Volturi. 

He only provokes when it serves a purpose, and when he’s fully in control: 

In the alleyway confrontation in New Moon, his violent threats serve as a part of his and Demetri’s ‘good cop, bad cop’ psychological tactic. 

Later in the book, his provocation of Edward occurred deep within the Volturi layer, in the presence of Alec and Jane. Any rashness on Edward's part would not only be futile, but would also give the Volturi more justifications to prosecute them, if Aro wishes. Luckily, Alice also recognises this. 

“Edward only smiled, his expression contemptuous. Then he froze. ‘Dibs,’ Felix called casually from behind. Edward turned, a low snarl building deep in his chest. Felix smiled—his hand was raised, palm up; he curled his fingers twice, inviting Edward forward. Alice touched Edward's arm. "Patience," she cautioned him.” (New Moon)

In Eclipse, he ceased all his teasing when confronted with Cullen's strength against the newborn army. This is a situation that went against his expectations, and with only five Volturi members present, he knew better than to irrationally provoke anyone.

“Eighteen, including this one,” Carlisle answered. Jane’s eyes widened, and she looked at the fire again, seeming to reassess the size of it. Felix and the other shadow exchanged a longer glance. (Eclipse)

He is always professional and alert: 

He was one of the three vampires Aro chose to accompany him to meet with the Cullens during the confrontation/battle. Indeed, his professionalism really did shine through.

“Hello again, Bella.” He grinned cockily while still tracking Jacob’s every twitch with his peripheral vision. 

“The brawny ones, Felix and the others like him, focused their suddenly hopeful eyes on me. They had not been sure of what my shield repelled, but it was clear now that it would not stop a physical attack” (Breaking Dawn)

This brief glimpse into Felix in action highlights why the Volturi keeps him around. He is an observant and professional soldier who could simultaneously distract their opponents while keeping his own focus. He is always on high-alert, which is a stark contrast to his impetuous and unconcerned persona. He is also able to think strategically and adjust battle plans immediately. 

Felix purposely creates this illusion of an irrational muscle who relies on his physical prowess to trick opponents into underestimating him. This is an effective tactic, as Felix was conveniently forgotten about by the Cullens and their allies when everyone was devising their battle plans in Breaking Dawn. In reality, he is much more strategic and complex. After all, he was one of the few remaining survivors from the battle-that-didn't-happen.

[darkita11]

Carol Cóndor "The Cruel Dancer"

Carol Cóndor (nicknamed The Cruel Dancer) is a freelance boxer and a professional Cueca dancer from Chile.

Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! (1987)

Nickname(s): "The Cruel Dancer"

Rated at: 144 lbs. (65 kg)

Nationality: Chilean

Age: 24

From: Santiago, Chile

Rank: #4 mayor circuit

Total fights: 30

Wins: 20

Wins by KO: 13

Losses: 10

He made his debut in 1987 on Mike Tyson's Punch-Out!! as the first opponent you face from the mayor circuit. His signature move, the Earthquake, consists of a stomp on the ground followed by a fast uppercut. He's a body swap of Piston Hondo.

Super Punch-Out!! (1994)

Rated at: 144 lbs. (65 kg)

Nationality: Chilean

Age: 24

From: Santiago, Chile

Rank: #2 Mayor circuit

Total fights: 38 fights

Wins: 26 wins

Wins by KO: 19 ko

Losses: 12 losses

Carol Cóndor reappears in Super Punch-Out!! in 1994 as the second contender on the mayor circuit. He's notable for moving around the ring a lot, probably a reference to the Cueca Dance. His Earthquake attack has been improved to two fast uppercuts that can knock the player out.

If he wins against your boxer by KO he will stomp the ground making the screen shake a bit and laugh at the player. His body swap is Heike Kagero.

Punch-Out!! (2009)

Rated at: 144 lbs. (65 kg)

Height: 5'8"

Nationality: Chilean

Age: 24

From: Santiago, Chile

Rank: #1 mayor circuit

Total fights: 30

Wins: 20

Wins by KO: 13

Losses: 10

Carol Cóndor returns on the Wii in 2009 for Punch-Out!! ranked as the #1 boxer on the Mayor circuit. He's seen more aggressive and angsty this time sporting makeup reminiscing of death metal while keeping his signature smile. Despite his more intimidating behavior on this instalment of the game his attacks are easily predictable.

His montage shows how his aggressiveness and lack of finesse made him fail at dancing contests, making him turn to boxing. In Title defense he seems unhappy and irritated, smudging the makeup on his face, so he returns to his dancer roots wearing his Huaso boots with spurs.

When taunting he will quickly raise one of his legs going for a fake kick. Dodging it will make Carol laugh and throw a fast punch, dodging the punch gives a stun opportunity. You can body blow him as he raises his leg to earn a star. In title defense he will actually kick the player, shortening the star opportunity window.

His signature attack "The Earthquake" also got more aggressive. He will back up and stomp the ground two times and charge the player (similarly to Bald Bull's "Bull Charge"). He then throws an overhead punch (similar to Mr. Sandman's) staying bent over for a bit, then throwing an uppercut as he stomps the floor once again.

Sooo I finally made a Punch-Out self-insert/OC (pretty much just me if I was a boxing dud)

Went the extra mile and tried to make it look canon heh (not to mention that I wrote all of this referencing the wiki)

Hope you like him! Gonna draw more of him... Once I'm done with this wave of tests (⁠´⁠；⁠ω⁠；⁠｀⁠)b

Btw for the Wii drawing: left is contender and right Title defense :)

[pedropascalito]

I am new to your blog. Where in Latin America are you (or your roots) from? I love to see fellow Latin American Pedro fans around here in Tumblr.

Hello!

My mom was born and raised in Santiago, Chile and was a Chilean popstar as a teenager. She came to the US when she was 20 on a student visa and enrolled in college in the US. While she was here, Pinochet took over and there were many bad things that happened to her family, and she was not able to return to Chile at that time. She met my dad and I was born in the US.

My mom was the only one in her family in the US and could not return to Chile until the mid-80s or so, when it was safer to go. Safe being a relative term. She was detained at the airport on arrival and I remember we had to lie about my dad's job because he worked at the Pentagon. Many men with machine guns still everywhere. It was a scary place to me then. Luckily I have been able to return as an adult and have different experiences!

My mom's side of the family are still in Santiago and Concepción; my step-grandmother lived in Viña del Mar and I did enjoy visiting her beach house. It is long gone.

My maternal grandfather was a philanderer and my mom has many unknown half-siblings, so I am just waiting for 23andMe or similar to piece together my full family in Chile.

I'm sorry I don't post as much as I used to because I exhausted Pedro's back catalog in gifs over the past few years; I'm finishing up Narcos S3. And TLOU is so tough for me to watch, I haven't been able to gif it much yet. I'll get there.

[adamnablelittledevil]

@probablynottola thank you for tagging me! I love this games and also love Ted Lasso! I almost used it here, but thought the answers would be too repetitive so went with something different hehe.

Rules: Choose any three fandoms (in random order) and answer the questions, then tag 10 people you want to know better

@black-market-wd4o, @voiddusk, @kaokhss, @ellavrena, @jaypentaghast, @andy4yippee, @unhinged-nonsense, @gayboymolloy, @hearfrost, @waterghoulcalamity

P.S. As I edited this on my drafts, some of the blogs I'd successfully tagged got unmarked and I don't know why? So I'm keeping it anyway in case it does show up on the notifications or people see it on their dash and want to play. No pressure tho. ^^ x

I choose:

Interview With the Vampire.

Stranger Things.

Shadow and Bone (going with the books because I'm not caught up on the show, but I did love season 1!).

The first character you loved:

Lestat, but things shifted pretty quickly to Louis, Claudia, Armand, Louis again and so on... But I guess he was the first because I wish I had his confidence.

El.

Alina.

The character you relate to most:

I relate to a lot of things with all of them, the least would be Daniel, but I still have one or two things in common with him. It's hard to say, but I think Claudia is a safe choice. She's definitely one of them and could definitely be the very first.

Will.

It depends, but Alina or Genya.

The character you'd slap:

ALL OF THEM except Claudia.

Lonnie. Would happily kill him with my bare hands.

The Darkling. Would happily give him the slowest, loneliest and most painful death in the world tbh.

Three favorite characters in order of preference:

Like I said, at this point it really depends on the episode. Sometimes I don't know who to choose even on one scene with just two people. Things are that balanced for me, which is a testimony of how mind-blowing the acting and writing are on this show. It's so satisfying to not be able to choose because all the options are amazing, I hope that never changes.

Will, El, Mike.

Alina = Mal, Genya.

A character you liked at first but don't like anymore:

Santiago. I hate him as a person, love him as a character, cheered when he died and applaud Ben Daniels for his amazing work. All reactions can and do coexist in me.

The only one I can think about is One? I mean, he is supposed to be the character you root against because of spoilery reasons, but I did like him at first. And I did see that plot twist coming from miles away. And it was still one of my favorite scenes from all time anyway because it was that powerful to see. Emmy material. And while I root against him, I still love him as a character. Wow. Such an upgrade in that category of specific type of characters. I love it.

I don't think there's one? Now that I'm thinking about it, I believe this story actually didn't have any traitors or characters that frustrated me? I started and finished the books loving/hating the same people, the only ones that I changed my opinion about grew on me after their development, never the other way around. Unless I'm forgetting something.

A character you did not like at first but now do:

Armand. It was more of a neutral opinion than dislike or hate. There wasn't much to know about him on season 1, but now... I'm obsessed. Assad is a wonderful actor, he stole the scene several times and gave me some of my favorite moments in the history of television.

Steve. I think the writers didn't know what to do with him at first, so he behaved in bad ways that really don't make sense with the person he turned out to be. It wasn't even like "wow, what a great character development", because he has absolute no signs of that guy anymore. It just feels like a totally different character at this point, but in a good way. He's my favorite among the teenage characters.

Zoya.

Three OTPs:

So I don't have OTPs that easily, it depends a lot on the writing, chemistry and the characters having a good amount of screen time for a pairing to get on OTP level for me. But here we go:

OTP

SHIP that has potential to become otp depending on future development

Ship I like and I root for, but some things are still missing for me OR there's probably not enough time left for it to become a full otp at this point

LOUSTAT? Okay, these two I'm not sure if they are a ship or straight-up OTP to me, I'm still figuring it out, but they're my favorite so far. Also, the church scene and the hug are my top 3 of favorite scenes on the show and some of my favorite on anything I've ever watched. I think Loustat will go down in history not only as one of the biggest pairings on TV shows, but also as the only one that fully explored all the depths of a relationship and even the depths of existence for the characters as individuals. The good, the bad, the ugly, the complicated. There's nothing else out there with that caliber of writing, chemistry, details and layers. At least not so far. And I'm in for it. ARMANDIEL, I need more time, but I'm invested. I haven't read the books, but everything I hear about Devil Minion sounds so compelling. And that scene with young Daniel is the other scene from my IWTV top 3. It's one of my favorite scenes ever as well. The chemistry was out-of-this-world and I hope they develop their dynamic on both timelines. LESMAND, I need more and I'm incredibly invested too. Everything about them on the books just sounds so insane. That scene they had alone, the chemistry was fantastic and so hypnotizing... They could be as explosive as Loustat, but in a totally different way if the writers want. I'll probably still root for the endgame ships, because that's what they'll spend more time with anyway, but I could accept any, each and everything they give me because the chemistry between all the duos is that incredible. Even Loumand, that sank pretty fast in the narrative, I loved their flirty and courtship phase so much. I'd also accept a large polyamorous ship if they gave me, but we know those vampires would kill each other and themselves because they can't really share lol. But I'm just enjoying the ride and having a great time.

BYLER, Jancy, Elmax.

MALINA, Genya x David, Nadia x Tamar (tbh that's the only other ship I remember/think that exists on the books and I'm neutral, but Nadia is AWESOME and I love her).

[itzymidzy]

240629 TWITTER: itzyofficial

🦊: Ready for the 2nd night too? Is everyone ready??

🦊: See you sooon!💕

👤: LETS GO CHAERYYYYY

🦊: Legoooooo

👤: chaeryeong please say hii 💕!

🦊: Hi~~😘

👤: HIII MY LOVE!! HOW ARE YOU? 🤍

🦊: I'm good Thank uu

👤: have fun tonight <333

🦊: Let's have fun tonight!

👤: CHAERYEONG 🍒 it’s the last concert for now! time goes by fast ㅠㅠ you worked hard!!!!! ENJOY THE STAGE WITH MIDZY AND THE MEMBERS! HAVE FUN AND GOOD LUCK TODAY FIGHTING FOR DAY2!!!! 사랑행 🫶🏻🥰

🦊: Time goes by fast😭

👤: there isn’t anyone who i love more than this cute little fox ❤️ thank you for existing in my life, i love you more than anything else in the world 💕🦊

🦊: i love u 222

👤: CHAERYEONG what has been your favorite city so far on the tour?

���: every cityyy was really good 💕

👤: Enjoy today healthy and injury-free

🦊: Yes!!

👤: HIII CHAERY have you eaten??

🦊: I’m going to eat now!! ㅎㅎ

👤: I LOVE YOU CHAERYYY 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

🦊: Loveyaaa

👤: chaeryeong my favorite song these days is cruel summer too!!!!

🦊: cruel summer~~~

👤: It’s the last tour for the US stop, and you did amazing in each concert!! Enjoy tonight and stay healthy!! 🤍 오늘 하루도 좋은일이 가득하길 바라 🦊ILY!!

🦊: ILY💕

👤: It's morning in Japan. I'm going to sleep from now on, but I'm rooting for you!!! ☀️☀️

🦊: Good night~ 💕

👤: every time i see you smile i smile too :D

🦊: i love when you smile😉

👤: chaeryeong i miss you soooo much :(

🦊: miss u tooo💕

👤: Have you tried Turkish food? You should try kebab🫵🏼❤️

🦊: okay! i'll try !

👤: So that we can reach Chaeryeong!!

🦊: Arrived! Take it

👤: chaery what’s your favorite thing about being on tour ?🧡

🦊: 1. MIDZY 2. midzy 3. MidZY 4.믿지

👤: make sure to comeback to canada with lia ~ 💗

🦊: 🫶🏻🫶🏻🙆‍♀️

👤: Chaeryeong, I have a prom tomorrow, wish me luck🙏🤍

🦊: good luck🍀

👤: did you like europe?? have a great time i love you 🩷🩷🩷

🦊: of course~

👤: Chaerrryyy what hair color would you like to try next ?? I miss your red hair soo much💞💞

🦊: Do you miss my red hair??🤭

👤: next time ur in irving i'll open the pool for you queenie 🤞🏾🤞🏾

🦊: yeahhh Promise me? 🤭

👤: Have fun in your last US spot<33🦊

🦊: Okeyyyy🫶🏻

👤: what song do you wish was on the setlist? mine is Sooo lucky🥹

🦊: in the morning~

👤: CHAERYEONG I LOVE YOUUUUU DO YOU LOVE MEEEE

🦊: I love u

👤: can’t believe i saw you two months ago already in santiago 🥹 i love and miss you so so much my chaery. you saved my life 💗

🦊: Already??🫢🫢

👤: I also want to prepare for the concert... I also want to see the concert... Why am I not in Canada?...

🦊: Go to sleep quickly

👤: chaeryeong i have been your fan since i was 12 i am now 17 and still your fan i love you 🥹🥹

🦊: So sweet 🥹🥹🥹Thank u 💕

👤: ILY MY FIVE BEST GIRLS I REALLY DO. Hope to see you again with Lia soon 🫶🏻

🦊: Hope to see you again 🔥

👤: Chaeryeong, what makes you smile these days? 🥰💖

🦊: Midzyyyyy

👤: What did you eat, unnie?

🦊: I haven’t eaten yet. I’m drinking coffee!! ㅎㅎ

👤: OMG CHAERYEONG I’M LATE ARE YOU STILL HERE

🦊: I'm hereeee~

👤: i drove eight hours to see you, hopefully you come to my country next time🥹🇦🇹

🦊: OMG ... next time? I'll go there

👤: i traveled from italy to spain to see you.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ i hope you will come to italy for the next tour ❤️❤️❤️ i love you

🦊: ok!😘

👤: I saw you in LA, you caught my attention don’t tell yuna that I recorded yourself a lot because you looked amazing !🫣

🦊: 🤭🤭🤭

[thatscarletflycatcher]

@fictionadventurer's post today about the imagery of the suitors in Lily Between Worlds -specifically the warrior- made me think of this poem (originally in Spanish) by Santos Inzaurralde, about a tree, the Scutia Buxifolia, a common native species:

Tough Wood, Coronilla

(Prologue to Coronilla)

It takes work for you to burn, but, once you catch fire, you don't die out; I just stir the cinders, and lit up like a firefly, you move your wings. In turn, the kindling burns immediately; just a breath and it turns flame, the crackling flame of a minute, that barely gives heat, even less so embers. Sitting by the fire I'm thinking, how much like twins are, wood and soul; there's souls that give of themselves without wearing out, and there's those that without giving, get worn out fast. How often is one deceived by the appearance of so much bright kindling, that in a few minutes dazzles you, but shortly afterwards, there's nothing left.

Coronilla

How alike we are, Coronilla, both born on the back of a hill range, rooting down, like a reaching hand, to anchor the soul between the stones! We don't give ourselves out in flowers, instead, we give shelter in the storm; we don't give fruit either, and yet, a passionflower that can, will wrap around us. The thorns we show, only have the harsh appearance of wild surliness; the only one that gets hurt by them is the one that attempts to enter our heart, but by force; or to tear from us a nest, because a nest never dies alone, and always takes with it the song it was incubating, to give it a beak in Spring. We are in the woods the strongest, almost blood the wood inside; which if it burns ember by night, it will still be bright as a star by midday. We don't wear out in smoke, and yet, if the wood has to burn, it will burn! They may burn the body but never the soul, because the soul, that is root, lives in the stone. Here, in the city, I am a stranger; I miss in anguish my home, and try, on the asphalt, to give shade, the fraternal shade that man carries with him. And even as it pains the soul to feel the distance, and even as it feels the bleeding absence of the blue cardinal and the chalk-browed mockingbird, the claveles del aire and the carquejas; the flying ember of the scarlet flycatcher, the chilca, the romerillo, and the marcela, I don't let go of my ember because even alone, a single coronilla, makes a hill range. How alike we are, Coronilla; born on the back of a hill range, and rooting down, like a reaching hand, to anchor the soul between the stones!

Here you can hear it sung by folk singer Santiago Chalar:

[basilships]

Howdy Basil!

I hope this finds you in good cheer and good health! I wanted to thank you for your support and also ask how you're doing; I hope life has been kind to you and I hope that you're having a wonderful time. I'd love to hear what you've been interested in lately- I see you mentioned star trek on your pinned! Yeehaw!!

I am all ears to hear how you've been and what your goals and plans are for the future! Please know I'm rooting for you!

Lastly, what have you and Warren been up to? Anything fun :>??

Sincerely,

Santiago @tex-treasures

(answering late because i got busy)

helloooooooo Santiago!

not long before you sent this ask, i was thinking about how delightful you are and how i hope all is well in your life! i'm doing well lately, i'm having lots of fun with my best friends and i'm currently nursing an irl crush 🤭 we think he likes me back but i'm giving it time to simmer.

know that i'm ALWAYS rooting for you and sending you good vibes!!

it was actually this blog's birthday not long ago (actually... that might've been July?), and my 5th anniversary with Warren (that might've been November? sorry. time means nothing)! i started redrawing old art and then immediately got distracted and lost steam, but Warren remains My Guy and one of my favorite characters, so it's very fun to be able to see that it's been 5 years of officially shipping with Warren, and 6 or 7 years of low-key shipping with him! i'll try to post some unposted various flying circus art in a separate post!

it was also my anniversary with Four in January, and i haven't post much Four to this blog, but that was my 4 year anniversary with him! crazy how time flies. and also how i was testing ADHD medication so i couldn't focus on anything long enough to make anything for my FOURTH anniversary with FOUR.

[something-tofightfor]

A BIRTHDAY SLEEPOVER, HOW FUN!! 🥳

Let’s start with an easy one. FMK: Din Djarin, Poe Dameron, Cassian Andor

Okay now a hard one. Choose: Ezra teaching you to prospect or Oberyn teaching you to fight?

This one might suck either way… oops. Would you rather: Live by the strict rules of the Jedi Order, or live by the strict rules of the Mandalorian Way?

Time to pick your brain. A question about a story: Which of your stories has your favorite title, and why is it your favorite? How did you choose it? Did the title come first or did you start writing first?

Please feed my endless curiosity about this man. A question about a character: Tell me something I don’t know about Caught On Santiago. Please.

Oh a quick little writing challenge? Okay. Writing formula: (word) unexpected + (scenario) first time in a new city + (character) Frankie

Easy? EASY? How is that easy?

i'm gonna kiss Cassian. He has far too many other things to worry about, and if I let myself get into it too deeply with him, it's just going to end in heartbreak for both of us. But a smooch or two isn't gonna hurt anything.

I'm gonna fuck Poe Dameron. I don't think I need to explain this but I still will - in two words: that. ass. (also those lips.)

I'm gonna marry Din Djarin. I will take whatever Mandalorian vows he needs me to take. I will spend the rest of my life making that stubborn, silly man happy and keeping him well fed and as relaxed as possible. I will GLADLY adopt his child as my own and not ever complain.

Oberyn teaching me to fight, hands down.

Ezra teaching me to prospect would be a very short lesson, because aside from showing me what to do and telling me to "hold it like you love it", I'd have to learn by trial and error, and that's on me. I'd very much like him to supervise, though.

But Oberyn? Training with him is as hands on as you can get. And it would be so satisfying to show him progress. It would be fucking amazing for him to see that I was listening and capable. It would be incredible to have him stand behind me eand teach me how to hold a spear, or where to thrust a knife or dagger to do the most damage.

Would definitely prefer CQC hands on figting with Oberyn though because it would likely lead to... um.. other things.

Fuck the Jedi Order.

I'm not foregoing attachments to learn how to move rocks and deflect blaster fire with my mind. I need connections with people and I need emotions. You tell me I'm not allowed to love anyone and I'm gonna go Dark Side real fast.

Din's creed sucks in a lot of ways, but it's respectable in a lot of others. And I wouldn't mind hiding my face because my expressions have gotten me into trouble in the past and if I had to keep my identity hidden, no one would see how often I rolled my eyes or wrinkled my nose or sighed or looked at people like they were fucking idiots.

My favorite title?

I really like the way that I've structured the titles for On Deck and JTGtBG, choosing phrases and titles based on the contents of the chapter and how they relate to either songs or baseball terminology.

But my favorite actual title is probably Root Pearl, because it's all about the connection and what is at the center of everything - Ezra's career, the relationships he has with Cee and Reader, the way Reader and Ezra have to nurture things as they grow and change so they don't get screwed up to an irreparable place... I picked it because the root pearls and aurelac was the focal point of Prospect, and I wanted the same idea to be the core of the story.

The title came as I was writing out the ideas for that story. I think you were the first person to know the title and the concept.

Caught On Santi is Frankie's son's godfather. Another thing? He helped Frankie pick out your engagement ring, and encouraged him to go with something smaller and more you instead of what Frankie wanted to do - a grand gesture with a ring that you would have liked but was unnecessarily huge.

Frankie + unexpected + first time in a new city? Here's a little Life is Good Frankie for you.

The elevation change in Colorado is a shock to Frankie, even though he's been in a variety of places throughout the years. He wasn't reckless when he first arrived, but a couple beers with dinner and then another at your place was enough to make him a little tipsy - which is not usually the case, and caught him off guard. You tried to warn him - and when he swayed on his feet as he stood to go to the bathroom, all you could do was laugh ... and when he came out, waking very slowly and very carefully, you had an ice cold bottle of water and some ibuprofen waiting for him.

[writefightandflightclub]

"ride or die is so special to me" ch.6 edition!!!

(Sorry this is so late work was just way busier than normal this past week!!)

Okay so right off the bat, "Santiago watches you go. Feels the violence of you being snatched from his side like a wound" why would you do that to us??? Probably bc it's beautifully written and a perfect start to this chapter but STILL. I felt personally ATTACKED by this opening. Also the callback to ch.3 which says "Santiago is a wound you could never close" 😭 babe you know I am rooting for these two but they keep hurting me AND EACH OTHER.

Is all the boys except Tom showing up foreshadowing Tom's fate in the movie?? 👀 also I like the detail that Benny is the one to follow her while Will is sort of the guard/the wall keeping the two of them apart while Frankie goes with Santi. Without having to talk about it, the squad falls into roles, you can feel their history as a team in the way they moved into, and through, this conflict. Hoping our girl and Benny don't do anything stupid (I can't remember which chapter it is so maybe I hallucinated it or something, but wasn't there a comment at some point about Benny having a soft spot for her or along those lines? I'd like to believe neither of them would be so stupid and short-sighted though).

The IRONY of Santi's fear of hurting her being the exact thing that ends up hurting her? BIG OUCH. Another ginormous ouch was this "Until Santiago feels only jitters through his weak legs. Until he feels a pit open up inside and swallow him. Until he can carry himself no further away from you. Until he realises that no matter how far he walks he cannot run from himself" LIKE THAT LAST LINE IS SO HAUNTINGLY POIGNANT!!!

Now for what might just be my favourite aspect of this chapter: Frankie being an absolute KING. "Don't talk just walk" is something I have to tell myself when I'm upset, and Frankie telling Santi that was so great!! "Don’t patronise her by thinking you know better" THANK YOU THIS IS KING SHIT FRANKIE KEEP IT UP BABY. Kudos to you balancing how messed up their military history and trauma has made each of them from Santi's perspective and how moving on is worth it from Frankie's - it makes the conflict believable and layered and interesting. The way Frankie is uniquely equipped to get through to Santiago and get him to admit what he is afraid of, what underlies all these tensions, was GORGEOUSLY explored.

However that ending??? NOOOO SANTIAGO NOOOOOO YOU LITERALLY JUST WENT THROUGH THIS WITH FRANKIE DO NOT FALL INTO THAT MENTAL TRAP AGAIN!!! I want him to do copious amounts of therapy!!!!

Can't believe how you just come up with all this stuff and write it so well? This chapter really went straight to my heart like this is the kind of shit I want injected directly into my veins it is so good!!!

Special to me anon!!! 😀🧡 Heyyyy!

Ooh thank you for this delicious commentary. And PLEASE never apologise for bestowing such a wonderful gift upon me. I would wait years. 😁

Btw, I hope that work isn’t being too unkind to you. You got this! 🧡

Okay. So. First of all I love it that you noticed that callback, with the wound imagery etc. ☺️🧡

And ooh, well we’ll have to wait and see if Tom’s absence is foreshadowing anything in this tale 👀 … but that’s such a stellar observation! Oh and I’m so pleased the way they all reacted gave hints at how they work as a unit. That it’s well-trodden. I wanted all of the relationships to feel plausible and unique but also that sense of them as a team to be present. The fact they can *mobilise*. I feel they would have roles and patterns without needing to speak about it and I did feel this is how it would go down. Oh my gosh, thank you for remembering that detail about Benny too! I did indeed suggest he has a soft spot for reader, and so I think it’s apt he’s the one to follow 🥹

And the ouches? Oof. I know, I know. Santiago really doesn’t want to hurt her. He honestly would rather suffer himself than do that. And yet… somehow they are BOTH hurting. But, he’s an expert at creating / worsening problems for himself (no shade, he’s got a lot to work through in that pretty head of his and breaking cycles is not easy). I feel like this whole scene with Frankie was so vital actually.

Also. Yes. Frankie = king. 👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑 No notes. 😁 I’m so pleased the conflict there was believable, and that their different perspectives / beliefs came through. I think one reason why it’s so hard for Santi is that when he tugs on the reader thread to try and unravel it, it’s tied on to this big ball of all his other traumas: military, grief, and more, and so it feels far too big. I do feel like Frankie is “uniquely equipped” it get through to him - love that phrasing. Sometimes when people are in it or too close to it they just need someone else to help them shift their angle of view. Even a small nudge. Frankie knows them BOTH so well and loves them, and I feel like even with everything he has going on himself he’s just slightly less jaded. He’s looking ahead to his new baby, wanting to get back on track, you know? Also, importantly, he’s TIRED. Like. Just sort it out, man.

And ahhhh the ending!!!!!!! 😱😱😱😱 I think this goes back to patterns being hard to break. I think it’s clear this one isn’t going to be solved by any one *single* moment or epiphany. That, *if* they can make it work, it’s gonna take some work. Let’s see! 🤭

Once again thank you for indulging me and letting me ramble about this story! I’m so grateful! 🧡🧡🧡

[ohsomightypeaches]

"How pretty do I have to ask?" he says, smiling wider than ever.

Oh he knows the power he has. Of course he knows the power he has.

You tell Santiago as much, but he just sits you down on the mattress, ignoring that sentiment entirely with a half distracted, “don’t be ridiculous, that horny freak gets off on you wearing his ugly-looking clothes.”

Ouch. Lol. Two insults in one I see. Actually idk if horny freak was an insult.

"Can't you go get Frankie's Go-Pro camera?"

💀 NOT THE GO PRO THATS WORSE THAN THE PHONE

"Don't you at least have a tripod?"

What kind of a high production value sex tape is he trying to make? 💀💀

It would be childish to roll your eyes, but Santiago-Maria Luca Hernandez Garcia makes it really fucking hard not to sometimes. For someone who's never been able to properly frame himself in a selfie, he sure is high and mighty about his artistic camera skills all of a sudden. He only capitulates when you counter that a sex tape shot on a Go-Pro is a terrible idea. Nobody wants to watch themselves naked through a wide-angle lens.

💀💀💀 I'm cackling at the entire paragraph. I'm glad that Boa and I can agree go pro is a terrible idea

"She's so pretty and wet, Frank," he murmurs, as his fingers spread your wet folds wide for himself.

Will frankie make it through the whole thing. Lol. He might not survive.

And as you think it, you realize that even though he brought up the sex tape as an innocent spur-of-the-moment suggestion, the bastard's thought of this way before Frankie had called to check in today.

I mean that may be but you might as well just give in. It's too late now. Lol

“Not much of a sex tape if we don’t put on a show, sweetheart.”

PLEASE. I CANNOT WITH HIM. what a fucking tease. He's lucky he's pretty.

He's laughing again, no scratch that, giggling, that bright boyish sound that has a kaleidoscope of butterflies skittering in your stomach even though you're mad enough to kill him.

🙄 HE LUCKY HES PRETTY

You won’t, and it’s not just because if you gave in the man’s ego would be large enough to develop its own gravitational pull until it collapsed the very sun itself with it.

Hahahahahahahahahhaha. The accuracy.

“There we go. That’s all I wanted. All you needed to do is ask, sweetheart."

🙄 what a little shit.

"Frankie's right, you really are such a good girl, sweetheart. Look at you beg all sweet and nicely. Should I reward you?"

Imma strangle him. Let me at him.

He's close. You grip onto his curls, tightly until it must sting. Just the way you know he likes it from all the time you’ve seen how fast it makes him come when Frankie does it to him, and Santiago groans, hips stuttering into you.

👀 I see she's got her own bag of tricks too

You must be screaming at him. Want to claw and dig into the man’s curly hair and tear it out by the roots. Curse him to the depths of fucking hell while you’re at it.

I will strangle him. I don't even mean it in a fun way.

His arms wrap tightly around your front, shushing you and it almost sounds sincere if you didn’t know him as well as you do. "Not teasing, cariño, promise."

🙄 I'll believe when I see is track star.

"Left it on when we passed out, thought the battery died and the video didn't save. Fortunately, it's fine, will just have to trim it down so Frankie doesn't have to watch us snoring for hours."

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA goof what a goof

I want to hear about how one fracisco morales did not survive watching the tape. 😌😈

Summary: Santiago and you make a sextape for Frankie.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you) (hints of Frankie)

Content: edging (you know the drill with this bastard by now), peak brat behaviour, overstimulation, voyeurism.

Wordcount: 5.9k words

Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist 

It starts the way so many things start between you and Santiago. It was a stupid idea, and Santiago talked you into it.

"Do you want to make a sex tape?"

You blink dumbly at Santiago, mouth agape. Your phone screen is still warm against your thumb from when you clicked the red button to end your call with Frankie not two seconds ago.

Your husband is out of town in Jacksonville, in a shitty hotel room they've set him up with, 10 minutes off base. Poor Frankie had sounded absolutely miserable when you spoke to him on the phone and the idea of sending him something to perk him up, a flirty text to rile him up, maybe a risque photo did cross your mind but a sex tape might be a little bit out of your depth.

You stare up at Santiago. His beautiful full lips, curling into a smile, eyes glinting with that trademark mischief that is the prelude for talking you into doing pretty much anything for him.

It's been that way since you were kids. There's never been one of Santiago's cockamamie plan that he hasn't managed to get you signed onto. Sweet smile and even sweeter talk. Car salesmen have nothing on Santiago.

“Frankie must be feeling lonely by himself in that hotel, we should send him something to make him feel less lonely," he says.

Santiago leans down, until his arms are caging you in, face close until the tip of his nose brushes against your cheeks, and that small contact makes you tingle all over.

“You miss him too right?”

Despite the self-satisfied smirk there, the sentiment is sincere. Still, you've never been one to make things easy for Santiago either.

"Santiago. I'm not Kim Kardashian. Don't be ridiculous."

He tips his head, considering you, and Santiago clearly hears the word that you did not say. You didn't say no. You prevaricated the way you often do when it's not that you don't want to: you like to needle him, for him to plead and ask nicely. For Santiago to pull out the red carpet treatment.

"How pretty do I have to ask?" he says, smiling wider than ever.

That is how you find yourself in your bedroom, not twenty minutes later. Wearing old sweatpants and one of Frankie's softworn T-shirts that you've spilled some soy and Sriracha sauce on earlier at lunch. It is, singlehandedly the worst outfit to memorialize on tape.

You tell Santiago as much, but he just sits you down on the mattress, ignoring that sentiment entirely with a half distracted, “don’t be ridiculous, that horny freak gets off on you wearing his ugly-looking clothes.”

Snorting with laughter, you sit down obediently as instructed because Santiago does make a valid point.

In front of you, Santiago is moving diagonally from the nightstand next to the bed to the footstool by the end of the bed, rearranging the furniture in the bedroom that would be "blocking the view," like he's playing furniture Tetris.

Then he comes back to stand in front of you, practically bouncing at the ball of his heels with excitement. You can feel the eagerness vibrate off of him, as he rolls ups his sleeves to his forearms. Eyes lighting up with that proud accomplished smile of his that makes butterflies swirl in your belly.

"You ready sweetheart?" he asks.

You shake your head amused, as you place your phone in Santiago's hand so that he can use it to record.

His smile drops, and it's like you've thrown a dark curtain over him, the luminous light in his eyes dimming, narrowing at the item in his hand, as if it's offended him, curled in half disgust.

"Phone?"

He says it with such indignity in his voice, it's as if you insulted his late mother by this very act.

"What's wrong with my phone?" you ask.

And boy do you immediately regret ever saying it. It launches Santiago into a game of twenty questions. Because suddenly, he's decided that he's the next Stanley Kubrick of homemade sex video tapes.

"Don’t we have something better?"

"Can't you go get Frankie's Go-Pro camera?"

"Don't you at least have a tripod?"

"How are we gonna get a good angle?"

"Is it okay if I move the reading lamp from the living room here to get better lighting?"

It would be childish to roll your eyes, but Santiago-Maria Luca Hernandez Garcia makes it really fucking hard not to sometimes. For someone who's never been able to properly frame himself in a selfie, he sure is high and mighty about his artistic camera skills all of a sudden. He only capitulates when you counter that a sex tape shot on a Go-Pro is a terrible idea. Nobody wants to watch themselves naked through a wide-angle lens.

This is so quintessential Santiago. He gets an idea into his head and will use every tool in his arsenal to convince you that his idea is a brilliant one. Then, once he has worn you out with his persuasion, and has you (begrudgingly) onboard, he will start bitching about every detail of the itinerary as if this wasn’t his project to begin with. You truly pity the people who had to be on his team for a group project back in school (which was almost always inevitably you).

It's enough to make you regret this whole endeavor before you've ever even started.

As you see him drag the armchair in the corner in front of the foot of the bed, and gingerly prop the phone against a cushion, the ridiculousness of this whole scenario washes over you. You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry at the sheer stupidity that you’ve signed yourself up to.

Santiago fiddles with the phone on the chair, and you see him angling it until he's satisfied that it captures you in frame before he leans back up.

The tiny lens flickers red then green, and the bright light has you flashing hot then cold then hot all over again. Your nerves suddenly a lot shakier than they were just a few seconds ago when you were bantering with the man.

Staring at yourself framed within your phone screen, you feel observed, in a way that shakes your own confidence.

Your heart skips erratically and you remind yourself mentally that, it's fine, it’s just you and Santiago in here. But there's heat prickling your face. Your fingers feel numb, sweating hot and cold at the same time and you find yourself clenching and unclenching your fists into the sheets to get some sort of sensation back into your hands.

“Do you want to stop?”

There’s concern etched on the soft lines of his forehead, one finger already hovering over the stop button. Ready to give you an out, if you didn’t want this.

And it’s not that you don’t want to do this. It's just--

You shake your head. “No… Just--” You let out a stuttering laugh, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. They’re shaky.

“You nervous?”

You hadn’t realized until he said it, but yes, you are. You give him a small nod, and he moves towards you, until he's sitting at the end of the bed next to you, and takes both your trembling hands in his, drawing them to his lap, and rubs them like he's trying to kindle a fire with your fingers.

The nerves in you melt, air flowing back into your lungs, and you can feel yourself warm pleasantly out to your fingertips.

"That better cariño?"

His voice is nothing like the teasing arrogance when he had tried to talk you into this in the first place. Nothing like the haughty banter when he had been going off about lighting and camera equipment. It's soft and gentle, a voice that tells you he's going to pick you right up if you stumble.

You nod again, releasing the long breath you've been holding all this time.

“Santiago, this is really stupid.”

He chuckles, a bright little sound that’s entirely too boyish coming from a man nearing the end of his thirties, with pepper and salt scattered over his five o clock shadow. It’s what makes it all the more endearing.

“That’s okay,” he says.

He leans closer to you, until he's mouthing the line of your jaw with his soft kisses. Lips moulding over yours, as he playfully nips at your bottom lip. Then he leans even closer, pushing, until the firm weight of his chest has you flat against the mattress and you're willingly pinned down underneath those gorgeous brown eyes of his.

“You make me do real stupid shit too," he tells you.

Your head turns to the side, and you look at the bright lens of your phone staring blankly back at you.

Your face must look pudgy from this angle. Shit, you're not even wearing make up. Did you even properly brush your hair? This is so stupid.

“Don’t think of the camera,” Santiago tells you, pressing a succinct kiss to your lips. “Just focus on me, sweetheart.”

His hand comes to rest on your cheek and he guides you back to his lips, obscuring your line of sight. It's like you have Santiago-blinders on and all you can see is him.

Soft and steady, his hands skim down the sides of your ribs, sliding up the hem of your shirt before his fingertips is brushing up against your bare skin. It tingles, warmth spreading up your spine as Santiago, slowly drags up the fabric up and over the swell of your breasts. Exposing your naked skin to the colder temperature of the room, soothing you with his warm mouth as he presses it up along every inch of skin that is bared to him. Up, up, up, until he pulls the shirt off you completely, until all you're left is in your plain panties, while he is still fully dressed, and he grins down at you.

"Good?" he asks, and you nod back at him as he leans back to pull up his shirt and evens out the playing field for you.

One large hand rests flat against the inside of your thighs, and that helps, the comforting presence of him as he squeezes down firmly with just the right pressure that has tension melting out of you.

Santiago has beautiful hands really. His fingers are long and nimble. In another lifetime, one where his right hand weren't littered with scars left from four different fractures and calluses forged in live gunfire, one could have easily mistaken him for being a classically trained pianist with hands like that. Fingers that playfully flit across your goosebumped skin. Fingers that slide down your hips, along the plump flesh of the inside of your thighs before dipping inside, circling your clit.

You arch and buck into him, keen and writhing. At the first touch of him, he touches just the right note and everything goes blissfully silent in your head. You forget about the camera, forget about any qualms you had.

He goes slow.

Patient, might not be the word to describe Santiago, but he is taking his time. Letting his lips cover, nip and lick down every inch of you as they press downwards from the collar of your neck to the soft slope of your stomach, until you can feel the pleasant scratch of his afternoon stubble graze along the soft skin of your legs.

"Spread your legs for me, cariño," he murmurs as he presses his lips there until you oblige him, and do.

Both his hand comes to rest at your knees, hooking them over his shoulders. Anticipation beats hard beneath your chest.

He's so close to where you need him. Nose practically touching your clit, and you can feel your slick drip down and out of you. Your fingers clutch at the quilts underneath you, waiting, and still there's nothing.

Opening your eyes, you dip down your eyes to Santiago nestled between your legs to see what the hold up is. Then you see it, Santiago, grinning with a sly look into the camera.

"She's so pretty and wet, Frank," he murmurs, as his fingers spread your wet folds wide for himself.

Insufferable brat.

You cant your hips with an impatient scolding whine, "Santiago."

He chuckles, and shifts between your legs, "Sorry cariño, will get right on it. Just got distracted for a bit."

His head leans down again, then all you see is his curls, loose and wild at the top of his head, before you feel his tongue touching down. A long thorough lick that has heat crackling through your veins.

It’s nice and slow, agonizingly so. Different, from what you’re used to. Frankie gets lost in it—in you. Hungry, sloppy and messy in the best of ways. That brilliant, clever brain of his turns off and it’s like the only thing left that he’s able to focus on in this new world of his is to taste you and have you, free of rhyme and reason, acting on instincts alone, guided only by the vibrations of your body and the moans you make.

Santiago is the opposite of that. 

His tongue is more deliberate. Like he’s trying to learn every one of your responses and sear them into his memory. 

Long and graceful fingers, exploratory, like he's trying to map out every inch of you to make sure that there's no territory that's been missed.

Intentional.

Precise and measured.

Santiago is a man who plans every step ahead. Every touch, every whisper, every tantalizing lick. It's in the way he keeps his hands steady underneath your back when your legs start to strain from pushing up towards his mouth. The way he was wearing your favorite red shirt that sits just a little bit too tight on his chest. The way he knew exactly where to drag your armchair to ensure that the angle of the camera would be right.

And as you think it, you realize that even though he brought up the sex tape as an innocent spur-of-the-moment suggestion, the bastard's thought of this way before Frankie had called to check in today.

Fuck, he's played you.

His tongue curls against your clit, flicking up and white sizzling heat spears through your stomach. You gasp, mind wiped clean of thoughts as your fingers curl into his hair.

Fuck, fuck, what were you thinking?

You’re a twitching, aching mess for him. Thighs pressed tight to his ears, as you can feel the tingling heat that starts from your core that spreads outwards and surrounds you in a devastatingly familiar way.

His tongue is a languid, slick slide against your clit. Fingers gracefully coaxing you until you're right where he wants you to be— that pinpoint edge of a slow burning ache that spreads across the entire base of your spine until your legs start to shake in that tell-tale sign of your orgasm.

“Fuck— Santiago, I’m—” you warn, but you can’t even make out complete words to finish your sentence, just indignant whines and sobs that should be shameful but you’re too far gone to care.

Because you’re almost there, so close you can feel it from the tingling sensation that reaches all the way from the very tip of your ears to the curl of your toes—how close you are to coming on that man’s tongue, and then— then— he stops.

He does not let you come.

It takes you a second, maybe two, for your brain to even fully register what has taken place. You rise up on your elbows, to stare down between your legs, where Santiago framed between your thighs, gazing back up at you. Lips curved upwards with amused mischief. Not a grin, no—that bastard is smiling at you, warm and sweet like he hasn’t done anything wrong at all.

“What are you—” you start.

“Not much of a sex tape if we don’t put on a show, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to protest, to give him the tongue lashing of his fucking life. But his fingers curl inside you, brushing against something devastatingly good. Your head drops back against the pillow with a thud, back arching away from your mattress and into his fingers, trying to have more of him, as he is rubbing against that deep spot that is blinding.

White, blistering heat spears through you that have you forgetting all about your indignant anger, have you forgetting what he did and fuck—makes you forget about your own fucking name for a second.

“Fuck, that’s such a pretty sound,” he says, voice feverish and rasped, “You think you can do that for me again?”

You groan impatiently, and Santiago's still smiling up at you, deep dimples burrowing into his cheek. It doesn’t matter that there are greys that are starting to skirt around his temples, or that wrinkles are crinkling in the corner of his eyes. He lights up boyishly, and all at once, you realize that —fuck, it’s embarrassing how much you’re a complete goner for this man.

The things you let him talk you into; the things you let him get away with. The things he’s doing to you right now: clever fingers rubbing-curling-pressing at that perfect place inside of you as he lowers his mouth to you again, his heated gaze never leaving yours.

The tingling heat is back, resuming its outward spread along your trembling limbs. A delicious pressure that builds and builds, more oppressive than last time under Santiago's skilled tongue and even more skillful fingers until you can’t think at all. Until all you can do is to rock your hips up against the heat of his mouth, gasping out his name. You reach out for him, your fingers sliding into his hair of their own volition to tangle and tug him even closer, pressing his face to your aching center.

Santiago doesn’t seem to mind at all. He just huffs out a sound that’s a half laugh, half groan and keeps kissing and pressing and teasing with that very same planned precision that is leading you ever closer to the edge of orgasm.

And then --of course-- he stops again.

An inhuman-sounding noise fills the walls. It takes you a moment before you register, it's coming from you.

"Shh, shh" he hushes, "it's ok sweetheart, you're okay."

Which is utter bullshit, your legs are trembling against the mattress, sweat dripping down your collarbone and you can't feel your toes. You're anything but okay.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this. You know that?” Santiago says.

"I hate you."

He's laughing again, no scratch that, giggling, that bright boyish sound that has a kaleidoscope of butterflies skittering in your stomach even though you're mad enough to kill him.

"No you don't," he rebuts confidently, as he presses his palm flat against your stomach. "You don't hate me, because I'm making you feel good, aren't I sweetheart? Why don't you tell Frankie how good you feel,” he murmurs, and then you feel his tongue press a slow lick inside you.

You don't get a word out, just a high-pitched breathless sound, as you spread your legs wider for him, as if the events from seconds ago had been erased from your mind by the pleasure that floods over you. Letting bygones be bygones, so long as his tongue never stopped. Sweet little circles, his thumb rubs into your hipbone as he gets you closer and closer to where you want to go. He leads you there, with his tongue and fingers, the soft curls bouncing on his forehead tickling against your stomach, until your orgasm is so close you can touch it with your fingertips.

So close you can see it, specks of white behind your eyelids, as you are whimpering out his name.

Then he stops.

He leaves you there suspended. Toeing the edge of a drop, right before a jump, and doesn’t let you go.

You want to scream. You're so close, your body is doing the screaming for you. Thighs aching and burning, tears stinging behind your eyes.

“Nonooo, fuck, Santiago, don’t sto—”

“Ask me nicely, Cariño.” Santiago's mouth is still pressed against your slick core, and you can feel the warm breath of his words against your folds as he says it. It makes you shiver at the sensation. “Ask me nicely, and I'll let you come. I promise.”

You open your eyes, with a sob, as you look down at him. Those gorgeous brown eyes, expecting his usual grin and bravado. Except it's not there, replaced by an intent that burns through your stomach, staring back at you in challenge: Beg.

You won’t, and it’s not just because if you gave in the man’s ego would be large enough to develop its own gravitational pull until it collapsed the very sun itself with it.

It's because you can't let him win.

The two of you have always had this strange competitive relationship. When he pushes you have to pull him back. Because if you give Santiago an inch he gets ahead of himself and will try to take a whole continent. You have to reel him back, and in the end if you’re lucky, he only goes for a mile. Still close enough that he’s not out of your sight. It’s what you’ve always done. It’s why the two of you work.

So of course you can’t beg. That’s just fucking ridiculous, to roll over and present your belly in defeat, to give in to this beautiful bastard is unthinkable to you.

You don’t beg, biting down your bottom lip to physically restrain yourself in your weakest moments when his tongue melts you. Don't beg when his fingers undoes you, unwinding the knot of heat that is blossoming in the depth of your belly, warm and achingly sweet.

You feel drunk on sensation, overstimulated by Santiago's tongue and mouth, as he latches his mouth on your clit again. You're not so sure about anything anymore. Don't know how long you've been here, how long he's done this, brought you to the precipice only to stop and start all over again.

It must be the fourth? Fifth time? Of having been led so close to your release with his tongue, only for him to slow down his strokes. To have his infuriating mouth, move away, and leave a trail of wet, soft kisses against the line of your inner thighs instead. To have him waiting until he knows you’ve climbed down from the very edge of a peak he’s held your hand and led you up to. After all of that, everything becomes a bit foggy and hazy.

It's not that you forfeit as such, you just can't remember doing it — can't remember asking him. But somewhere along the line, you let out a shaky, “ple-please” punctuated with a hiccuping sob.

He smiles.

“There we go. That’s all I wanted. All you needed to do is ask, sweetheart."

There’s an insufferable grin this time as you look down between your thighs. That diamond-cut jawline, belonging to the golden era of Hollywood is now glistening with your slick. He licks his lips like he’s tasting the remnants of something sweet and appetizing that he doesn’t want to go to waste.

After that first defeat, it gets easier. You can’t believe how easy it is as you start pleading and begging. Can barely believe that’s what you’re doing even as you hear your own voice all wanton and needy doing exactly that.

Santiago raises himself to kneel over your spread legs. His fingers are wrapped tight around the base of his cock, stroking himself languidly as he looks down on you.

"Frankie's right, you really are such a good girl, sweetheart. Look at you beg all sweet and nicely. Should I reward you?"

Your eyes are so dazed you���re unable to focus—everything’s a blur. You wonder what you must look like right now. How debauched of an image you must make for the camera— for your husband. Legs spread, slick and dripping, head thrown back, mouth slack and open.

“Please just— Fuck, Santiago, please. Please, I need to come.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and his hand comes to rest on the back of your thighs, warm and sturdy as he draws them up and spreads them.

For all the frustration you should feel at him for taking things this far. For being such an absolute little shit, all you can feel as he pulls you further down the bed until your legs are locked around his waist (right where you two belong), is warmth and relief.

Santiago leans down until his forehead is pressed against yours, grounding you. The contrast between what he’s done— teased and edged, unwound you until you’ve lost any sense of time or thread of your surroundings; and what he’s doing to you right now in this moment—mouthing loving praises against every inch of your skin he can reach with the gentlest care— it tears you apart.

“That’s my good fucking girl,” he tells you, his warm hands resting on your inner thigh as he spreads it further apart and crawls up your body to settle between them. “So perfect. Always are.”

Your eyes are drawn to his cock, how it’s proudly jutting between his legs as he strokes it, flushed and dripping with precome from the lack of touch and neglect.

It's only then it hits you, how Santiago has been neglecting his own pleasure throughout. Only focusing on giving you yours.

It’s ridiculous really, how your heartbeat quickens when he’s pressed up against your slick cunt, how needy you are when you feel the blunt hardness of him.

His hands wrap around the thick girth, and then he pushes inside you with his cock.

Fuck you might almost come from that first blissful stroke alone. He nudges insistently against something ruinous inside you that makes your vision whiten. You can't even make any noises, because all the oxygen is knocked out of your lungs. God, why didn’t you beg sooner if this was the prize he was willing to give you.

Santiago's moaning too. Low and gravelly and it’s such a beautiful sound that makes your chest draw tight. Then he rocks his hips into you, a deep and impatient thrust, not holding back. You drown in it. The lack of restraint and how he’s finally giving you what you’ve wanted for so long.

He's close. You grip onto his curls, tightly until it must sting. Just the way you know he likes it from all the time you’ve seen how fast it makes him come when Frankie does it to him, and Santiago groans, hips stuttering into you.

You’re so fucking close, and you tell him exactly that. Confesses it between gasps and heaving sobs. All you want is for him to fuck you harder and deeper, to make you come.

"Please, Santiago, please just—."

The molten heat blossoms and spreads from the base of your spine, upwards, and you're almost there. So full with the sensation that you think you’re going to burst out of yourself along the seams of your skin. You’re close, so close. Heat crackling along every inch of you and—

And then Santiago fucking pulls out.

You must be screaming at him. Want to claw and dig into the man’s curly hair and tear it out by the roots. Curse him to the depths of fucking hell while you’re at it.

But Santiago pulls you up until you're kneeling upright by the edge of the bed. He's murmuring sweet apologies into your ear as he mouths and kisses your neck.

For all the physical anger in you, your body is not pairing up with your brain, because the touch of him lingers with a pleasant tingle. You keen through sobs even as you’re uttering every curse that’s left in your presently limited vocabulary.

His arms wrap tightly around your front, shushing you and it almost sounds sincere if you didn’t know him as well as you do. "Not teasing, cariño, promise."

You don’t buy that, don't buy that for shit. But it doesn't matter if you do or don't, Santiago's hands are already moving to your hips, lining himself up from behind you, his front pressed up against your back.

"I just want Frankie to see you when you come," he murmurs into your ear. His fingers curl gently over the edge of your jaw, turning it so you’re facing straight away from him. “See that?”

Your vision is blurred and it takes you several moments before you’re able to blink and focus on the scene ahead of you. Your phone that’s pointed accusingly at your naked body.

Exhausted, limbs weak to your side like a spent rag doll, with only Santiago propping you up from where your back is pressed against his firm chest.

"I want you to think about it, cariño,” his warm lips are pressed to your ear, a low raspy caress in your core. “Think about Frankie watching this where he is.”

You whimper. Images of Frankie with his large hands and thick fingers, wrapped around his cock burning vividly behind your closed eyes.

You feel the length of Santiago drag against your folds, gathering the wetness that's just dripping onto his cock.

“Think about how he’ll be touching himself in that hotel room. About him watching this and seeing my cock stretch out this perfect pussy."

Then he's pressing inside you again. His palms slide from your breast to your stomach, the rough callouses catching against your heated skin, down and lower. Until you feel his fingers skate across your navel. There's a tingling sensation there until his hands come to the front, cupping your pussy, his fingers gliding over your wet slick clit, over and over. The entirety of your spine burns.

The inevitable steady climb of your orgasm builds and builds and builds after having been denied so many times.

You want it, thighs burning and everything in you aches with the need of it. If you don’t get to come this time you think you might very well die from it.

"Santiago, I swear to god, don't-stop-don't-fucking-stop."

It’s meant as a threat. But the words passing between your lips are breathless and needy. Whiny. Beyond any reasonable doubt it falls squarely on the scale of begging. The worst part is, you don't even care anymore. Because if whining and begging is what it takes for him to actually let you come, you’ll whine for him. You’ll beg and plead and do whatever it is he wants you to do.

Your pride was scattered somewhere between the third or fourth or maybe even fifth time he could have made you come but didn’t.

The sharp line of his nose digs into your heated cheek. Arms locked impossibly tight around you, pressing every inch of you to him, and still, it feels like he’s clutching on trying to press you even closer to him. Like he’s worried that you’ll slip between his fingers if there’s any gap of space between you.

"Not gonna stop cariño.”

His voice has no right to be that sweet and gentle. You can see his expression on the small screen on the phone mirrored back to you and he has no right to look strained and tortured as if he’s the one in pain. He did this to you.

“I want to feel you come on my cock,” he says, and his voice is so quiet and gentle, it almost sounds like a plea. Like he’s the one asking for your permission, begging you to let him feel you. Like the last hour (or was it hours, god knows) had not taken place because of him. “Let's come together ok?"

His other hand comes to your hip, pulling you in closer to him. His hips snaps hard into you. It's so much, almost too much and his fingers are still circling your clit, and– and fuuuuuuuck.

It hits you all at once. Deep and sudden and everywhere, your orgasm overwhelms you, until you can't breathe, can't think, can't move. Sound disappears altogether, and the last thing you think you hear is Santiago's strained voice, distant and far away. You're only able to make out your husband's name and yours amongst the rest of the nonsensical words he's speaking.

The only thing you're capable of is letting Santiago fuck into you, until you can feel his hips stutter into a jerky pace, and the way his cock twitches inside of you as he comes with a strangled groan.

Santiago is snoring quietly when you wake with your ear pressed against his chest. The afternoon sun has dimmed now, replaced by a softer amber that washes the white walls in its sunset hues.

Raising yourself by your elbows, you cast a quick glance at the clock on the nightstand, shit, 5pm, how did you sleep away half the day.

Santiago is how.

"Shit, did we fall asleep?" a raspy murmur comes to your side.

He's rubbing the sleep from his eyes, eyes squinting adorably as he sits himself up and surveys the room and spots the clock much like you did.

"Jesus, five? how did we even--" he grumbles a bit, fingers threading through his hair to try to detangle the absolute mess you've left it in, as he starts to wake.

"Oh, oh shit shit!" he curses and launches himself to the foot of the bed.

You watch him in surprise, as you see him grab the phone.

"Oh thank god," Santiago sighs out and his shoulders sag with relief. He turns back towards you, holding up the phone.

"Left it on when we passed out, thought the battery died and the video didn't save. Fortunately, it's fine, will just have to trim it down so Frankie doesn't have to watch us snoring for hours."

The image of it, Frankie sitting in his hotel, trying to get his rocks off, and instead being greeted by three hour footage of Santiago snoring, has you snorting with a grunt-like laugh.

In front of you, Santiago tilts his head as he just looks at you, with a dopey smile on his face.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing," he says, but the smile, sweet and warmer than the sunset blankets over you and you let it settle over you, without any further quip or remarks for once.

"Wanna grab a bite to eat?" Santiago asks you.

Your tongue salivates at the prospect, images of grilled meats and deep fried spring rolls already flashing before your eyes.

"Oh yes! Can we go to Chinos?"

Santiago smile slips away into a scowl. "Didn't that place get shut down for health violations last month?"

"Yeah, but they reopened this week."

"We're going to end up with food poisoning like that time we went there the night before graduation."

You tip your head, considering him, and you can clearly hear the word that he didn't say. He didn't say no.

Your lips curl into the sweetest smile you can muster as you flutter your eyelashes at him. "How pretty do I have to ask?"

Santiago shakes his head, until he flashes you a toothy smile that crinkles his eyes.

It starts the way so many things start between you and Santiago. It was a stupid idea, and you may have talked Santiago into it.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

A/N: I started this piece well over 1 1/2 years ago and it was actually supposed to be the follow up to Coming Home but I got completely stuck at how to write edging scenes, and didn't feel confident enough at the time to finish it. I came back to it this week, realizing that ironically now this is all I write for Santiago, and finished it within an afternoon, and was just so buzzed and happy about it, I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

[lingocurio]

My alternate self has been in Lisbon for a week now, and my real self still knows nothing about Portugal. Sad.

Wikipedia is always a good place to start. I thought this section about how Portugal got its name was pretty interesting.

The word Portugal derives from the combined Roman-Celtic place name Portus Cale;[24][25] a settlement where present-day’s conurbation of Porto and Vila Nova de Gaia (or simply, Gaia) stand, along the banks of River Douro in the north of what is now Portugal. The name of Porto stems from the Latin word for port or harbour, portus, with the second element Cale’s meaning and precise origin being less clear. The mainstream explanation points to an ethnonym derived from the Callaeci also known as Gallaeci peoples, who occupied the north-west of the Iberian Peninsula.[26] The names Cale and Callaici are the origin of today's Gaia and Galicia.[27][28]

There are some Hungarian folk songs that refer to "Galicia" and I'm not sure why. I just remember wondering where the heck Galicia is. It's in present-day Portugal? Why would Hungarians be singing about that? Maybe there's more than one Galicia.

Another theory proposes that Cale or Calle is a derivation of the Celtic word for 'port', like the Irish caladh or Scottish Gaelic cala. These explanations, would require the pre-Roman language of the area to have been a branch of Q-Celtic, which is not generally accepted because the region's pre-Roman language was Gallaecian. However, scholars like Jean Markale and Tranoy propose that the Celtic branches all share the same origin, and placenames such as Cale, Gal, Gaia, Calais, Galatia, Galicia, Gaelic, Gael, Gaul (Latin: Gallia),[29] Wales, Cornwall, Wallonia and others all stem from one linguistic root.[27][30][31]

Whoa! That's cool! I love when you can see the connections between different languages and see the changes and divergence over time.

A further explanation proposes Gatelo as having been the origin of present-day Braga, Santiago de Compostela, and consequently the wider regions of Northern Portugal and Galicia.[32] A different theory has it that Cala was the name of a Celtic goddess (drawing a comparison with the Gaelic Cailleach, a supernatural hag). Further still, some French scholars believe the name may have come from Portus Gallus,[33] the port of the Gauls or Celts.

So basically, lots of great guesses.

Around 200 BC, the Romans took the Iberian Peninsula from the Carthaginians during the Second Punic War. In the process they conquered Cale, renaming it Portus Cale ('Port of Cale') and incorporating it in the province of Gaellicia with its capital in Bracara Augusta (modern day Braga, Portugal). During the Middle Ages, the region around Portus Cale became known by the Suebi and Visigoths as Portucale. The name Portucale evolved into Portugale during the 7th and 8th centuries, and by the 9th century, that term was used extensively to refer to the region between the rivers Douro and Minho. By the 11th and 12th centuries, Portugale, Portugallia, Portvgallo or Portvgalliae was already referred to as Portugal.

The Carthaginians. I remember learning about the Carthaginians during my university studies an eon ago. I don't remember who they were or what happened to them. Time to delve into some ancient history, perhaps?

The 14th-century Middle French name for the country, Portingal, which added an intrusive /n/ sound through the process of excrescence, spread to Middle English.[34] Middle English variant spellings included Portingall, Portingale,[note 5] Portyngale and Portingaill.[34][36] The spelling Portyngale is found in Chaucer's Epilogue to the Nun's Priest's Tale. These variants survive in the Torrent of Portyngale, a Middle English romance composed around 1400, and "Old Robin of Portingale", an English Child ballad. Portingal and variants were also used in Scots[34] and survive in the Cornish name for the country, Portyngal.

Excrescence! Gesundheit. Thank you.

Well that was an interesting little linguistic side trip. I'm always curious about how countries got their names.

[themomsandthecity]

Eva Longoria Lets Her 4-Year-Old Drink Her Coffee; Here's Why

Image Source: Getty / Daniel Perez / Stringer Award-winning actor, director, producer, and activist Eva Longoria doesn't talk to her son about whether food is "good" or "bad." Rather than label certain foods as healthy or unhealthy, she wants him to remain curious. "I want his relationship to food to be very healthy," she tells POPSUGAR, rather than get bogged down by negative associations. "He's at an age where he eats everything," she says about 4-year-old Santiago Enrique, whom she shares with her husband, José "Pepe" Bastón. "If I'm eating something, he'll ask me about it. For example, he's obsessed with my morning coffee. He'll ask if he can have some, and I'll say, 'Absolutely, but you might not like it.'" From there, he goes through his five senses, first smelling it and then touching it ("It's too hot!"). She says, "That curiosity, I support." At a barbecue recently, Santiago was able to accurately label everyone's drinks. "My friend had a margarita, my husband had wine, and someone had a beer, and he just goes, 'That's a margarita, that's wine, that's a beer,'" she says, laughing. "I don't know if it's a good thing that he knows the name of these drinks, but it was very funny." His curiosity goes beyond tasting: Santiago loves to be part of the action in the kitchen, too. "I love cooking with him when he gets involved," Longoria says. "You can't care about the mess or if eggshells get in the bowl. It's like free play." She encourages him to taste ingredients and have fun with it. "So he's really comfortable in the kitchen." Image Source: Courtesy of Eva Longoria and Kellogg's The two of them have traveled together as part of CNN's new show "Eva Longoria: Searching For Mexico," where she tastes the unique cuisines across the country. In Mexico City, her son tasted his favorite dessert of churros and hot chocolate. Back at home, breakfast remains close to their roots. "We're a Mexican family, so we make flour tortillas every morning," she says. "Santi loves the masa and rolling out the tortilla. He'll take his cookie cutter and make a heart-shaped one." She's taken Santiago with her to India to give food to orphanages and to Mexico to provide clothes to children. "He asked me, 'Why don't they have shoes?,' and so I explained to him that not everybody is as fortunate as we are to have shoes," she says. "That's what you want, to spark that curiosity. I'll never tire of answering his questions." Philanthropy, like food, has always been close to Longoria's heart. She's partnering with Kellogg's Breakfast For All initiative, which donates $1,000 (equal to 10,000 meals) to No Kid Hungry for each purchase of an Eva's Breakfast For All Bundle (which includes several breakfast items as well as something signed by Longoria). "I don't think people realize that hunger is such a big issue in the United States," she says, adding that one in eight children live with hunger in the country. "I was excited to be part of this effort to relieve some of the burden on families." Above all, she aims to set a good example for her son. "You have to show them the human you want them to be, because you can't talk to your children about charity and philanthropy, but you can show them. That's what my mom did with me, and now I'm doing it with my son." Related: Eva Longoria Supports Serena Williams, Pointing to Double Standards For Working Moms https://www.popsugar.com/family/eva-longoria-teaching-son-food-49149035?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

[tuiyla]

hi :)

this is sort of a strange topic, but i've been thinking about klaine and brittana over the past few days and how their storylines would've been different if say, kurt and blaine had both been girls instead and brittany and santana had been guys. i talked to a couple of my friends about it and one of them gave me this brilliant response to my question about klaine.

so as a brittana fan, how do you think brittana's storyline would have changed if they were both boys instead of girls (maybe popular football players who slept together instead of cheerios?) how would their characters be different? would there be aspects of their storyline that would need significant adjustment?

obviously not expecting as long of a response as the one i linked (unless you want to 😂) but i would like to hear your opinion because i always enjoy reading your takes :)

Hello hello! Oh I love that response, excellent content by @hummels-turn. Can't promise to be as detailed haha at least not now but I might return to the topic in the future and in any case, honoured to have been asked for a Brittana perspective!

I think the big thing is that everything in Glee is so gendered, much more than I've seen fans acknowledge it in analysis so far, and that's doubly true for Klaine and Brittana because of the queer aspects. And then of course Glee's own sexism as a show which, is A Thing, but for this answer I'm just gonna pretend abominations like IKAG didn't exist - we're gonna erase it from existence anyway! Yay, I'm already loving this thought experiment. I’m also gonna assume it’s not a complete gender swap for every character.

This is mostly about background/first two seasons stuff and less a reimagining of specific plotlines and more just a general thought process of how they’d even come to be as an mlm couple. The sections are barely separate thoughts but I needed to break it up somehow lol; I’m long-winded, not cruel. I’ve seen the names Santiago and Brett used for gender swaps before and even though I don’t, like, Love That (because of a Santana/Brett fic that scarred me), I’ll use those names to keep it simple.

Titans instead of Cheerios

I think they’d definitely be on the football team because that’s the most surefire way of keeping their popularity and overall status. They are also still athletic and I feel like the Cheerios was about a sense of belonging, too, so being Titans instead of Cheerios makes sense. There are already differences here because of the inherent contrast between being a jock and a cheerleader cheering for a jock, so basically what all of this is already making me realize is that there’s so much to talk about with Glee and gender dynamics. But I won’t digress, another day.

So Santiago and Brett are both football players and I think it’s interesting if they use their sexuality in much the same way, i.e. essentially to gain popularity but more so a reputation by sleeping around. Only in this version they’re not the slutty cheerleader archetype but more like what Puck is in canon: the stud who really gets around. At least Brett is because Brittany’s (bi)sexuality even in canon is always presented as such a casual thing. She just genuinely enjoys sex and sure, there’s an aspect of reputation to it and there’s much to speculate about deeper issues, even, (”alien invasion” and all that) but it’s not a conscious social status thing like it is for Santana. So Brett is also very sexually liberated and fluid and him being a guy, he isn’t considered a slut because of it. And Santiago also gets around a lot and gets much the same admiration for it but much like Santana, he has a more well-defined albeit on/off relationship with a Cheerio - the Santana to his Puck, so to say.

But here’s the biggie with the gender swapped version: Santiago and Brett simply can’t happen the same way Brittana did. Brittana started out as a thing for the male gaze, both in- and out of universe, and the dynamics of that would be completely different if they were guys. Not saying Santiago and Brett stand no chance and far be it for me to imply that it’s any easier for wlw, but Brettiago(?) can’t work the same way Brittana did. Them making out at parties would come with instant homophobic vitriol instead of being dismissed or cheered on as hot. I think they’d still find each other attractive and might even begin a secret thing like Brittana did but their story would unfold very differently.

Santiago Lopez

Santana’s whole thing is that she can have her cake and eat it: make out with Brittany and still be considered hot and popular, even more so because of it because people dismiss wlw attraction as being for show. And Brittana fully take advantage of that, as seen through their date with Finn. So she has her cake and is kinda with Brittany but eats it too because she’s not out and labelled as a lesbian. Except, eating it makes her so, so miserable in the first two seasons and it comes with comphet (which--- is an essay we’ll get to, as I’ve promised to you and many others lol) and self-sabotage and to the general detriment of her relationships. So it’s not really a win-win, and it’s very far from being that for Santiago.

Because of the differences in how lesbian and gay attraction are treated, Santiago suffers and deals in different ways. Let’s assume he still has Alma as her grandmother and an abuela like that would mess up any nieto. For some reason I have this feeling Alma would feel differently about a grandson, putting him on a pedestal and spoiling him a little but still with the same belittlements that Santana refers to - maybe just more subtle. Basically, thanks Abuela! And her homophobia might be a lot more open and hateful of gay men specifically, which is bound to affect little Santiago. So now he not only internalizes homophobia and externalizes it as anger like Santana did but has the added pressure of being a disappointment to his abuela in a way that’s different to Santana’s fears.

Santiago would know that something’s, well, off about himself but it would be Brett who kisses him one day when they’re hanging out or at, uhm, football camp? If that’s a thing, I’m neither American nor a sports person. So anyway, they start out as best friends much like Brittana did but there’s less open affection because it’s not socially acceptable, so Santiago freaks the f out when Brett acts on the tension that’s been building up. He can’t rationalize it the same way Santana did. It’s not something football players would cheer on, it’s something they would viciously attack. And before I get too deep into the actual relationship, let’s just stay with Santiago for a moment because I think he’d be one of the guys using the word gay to describe things that are bad and as a general insult.

Santana made some homophobic comments for sure but it was never targeted or specific with her, just her general cruelty manifesting. Much like I think Santana does, Santiago would also feel very angry because of the feelings he has to repress and because he knows the world wouldn’t accept him and I think he also externalizes it and lashes out at others. If anything, whatever happens with Brett he’d be that much more anxious and terrified and I think he’d use homophobia as deflection so he’d actively participate in that kind of bullying as well. Basically what I’m saying is that Santiago is much like Karofsky because I still firmly believe that Dave was the male Santana so, you know, makes sense that the male Santana would essentially be Dave. The “homophobic bully is actually just gay” trope has Issues, sure, but in this case and in Karofsky’s case it can actually be traced back to their own internal fight and externalizing that through homophobia as a way of trying to prove something to the world and themselves.

The question is, where does Santiago go from there? Because we saw how his own terror almost drowned Dave and canon Santana is reluctant to vulnerability as is, and I think that’d be amplified with Santiago as a guy who’s taught not to express any real feelings that make him seem less manly. And it was hard enough for Santana to conquer that fear of what people will say - heck, she never actually came out; she was outed. So what, would Santiago also “need to be outed” to be able to exist as an openly queer person? Side note, don’t we just hate how Glee’s solution to both its deepy closeted queer people was to out them and get it over with, only to spend little to no time on the aftermath. Anyway. It depends on so many factors how Santiago’s coming out would go. Santana’s journey relied heavily on the fact that she was able to explore much of her sexuality with Brittany early on and sure, there was a fear there don’t get me wrong, particularly when feelings got involved, but it’s almost as if sex came first, then love. I’d hazard to say it could be the opposite with Santiago because intimacy wouldn’t be as encouraged but he can still quietly pine.

Brett Pierce

Here’s where we jump to Brett because, as much as I think Santiago would be so much like Karofsky in how he takes his own internalized homophobia out on others, the key difference is that Santiago has a Brett. Santiago has someone also on the football and also a popular guy who’s not like either of them. Much like Brittany, Brett would be comfortable with his sexuality and specifically bisexuality, once he has a word for it. It’s just the way he feels, the way he’s always felt and he’s never much been concerned with how others view him so being labelled gay or even some nasty words doesn’t affect him, or at least doesn’t terrify him to the extent it does Santiago. But I feel like I also once again have to note the different gender dynamcs.

Brett would not be able to express his sexuality as a bi guy in the same way Brittany did as a bi girl. I think they’re both limited by the homophobic world they live in but in different ways. With Brittany, the underlying assumption was that her attraction to women is temporary or not serious and she’d “stray for penis” (🙄 f u Glee and your biphobia). With Brett, I think he’d be limited in the sense that at the first sign of showing attraction to the same gender people would immediately label him as gay and he’d be stuck with that identity even if it doesn’t reflect reality. If, like Brittany, he had opposite sex midgames I think they’d be different dynamics and a sense of doubt about his attraction to them, as if he’s only using them as beards. Which wouldn’t be true, just as Brittany’s relationships with Artie and Sam were valid in their own right.

All that said, I don’t think this limitation and others’ judgement would faze Brett much. If he’s the same as Brittany just a guy version then he’s also comfortable in his skin and his much bigger insecurity is intelligence and how he’s dismissed and belittled in that way. Which is also an interesting comparison between genders, btw. But yes, as far as sexuality goes I think Brett would also sleep around a lot but more so for fun than the reputation it gives him. Santiago would, too, like I said, though I think he’d have a less, shall we say, active sexual life than Santana did because sexuality was Santana’s way of maintaining her status and that meant constant availability. Santiago would only need to sleep with a few girls, brag, have his on and off Cheerio and he’s already a legend among the Titans.

Brettiago and the rest of the story

Back to Brett but also going more into Brettiago, like I said I think he’d initiate things. He wouldn’t consider “what will the others say” and “what does this mean for us”, he’d just think Santiago looks super hot (cause he would lol) and go for it. And I think there’d be an initial rejection from Santiago and it’d be rough, emotionally, but they might have a secret thing going on eventually. Only, that’d make Santiago even more terrified and someone’s bound to catch on eventually so when it all explodes there’s still angst like there is for season 2 Brittana. Maybe they’re a casual hookup thing and Brett has a girlfriend like Brittany had Artie, and maybe Brett would like to talk about things like Brittany did in Sexy.

There are just so many variables. Like, do they even join Glee Club? Sue would either have to be the football coach instead or they follow Puck after Preggers for, uhm, some reason. I honestly think Santiago would need a better reason than “dancing is fun” because Santana’s spy reason was convenient but singing and dancing was also more socially acceptable for her than it would be for closeted football player Santiago. Finn got so much shit form the football team and very specifically gay insults so I don’t think Santiago would be able to tolerate that. Speaking of, in my mind Finn and Santiago have an ongoing rivalry. And what about people like Quinn, Rachel, Kurt and others? How would Brett and Santiago relate to them if everyone else stays the same gender? Smells like sequel bait to me.

But to close it out, for now, with answering your core question of how Brittana, or in this case Brettiago plays out: there are significant adjusments because a lot of early Brittana is inherently tied to them being hot cheerleader girls. Brettiago would face different challenges - not necessarily easier or harder, just different. They’re still best friends first, they still feel drawn to each other, Brett is still more casual about all things sex and Santiago still more terrified. A lot depends on how we view their coming out in this scenario but I’d like to think Brettiago would still reach (some of) the same milestones and conclusions as Brittana. After the secrets and shame and angst they’d still choose each other and find a better life after high school.

Oh and I realize now I never followed up on the “difference between Santiago and Dave is Brett” thing. Maybe Brett and his open heart would be the reason Santiago doesn’t end up as Karofsky. At least that’s my hopeful interpretation. Maybe, just maybe, Santiago could come out in his own time, unlike Santana and Dave.