#for some reason this post was prompted by. santiago.

[jsprnt]

Americano PT. 2 | Jude Bellingham x Reader

What happens if two individuals who absolutely despise each other are forced to interact after unforeseen events occur?

A/N: my exam took me out and I had the longest nap of my life but here’s part two!! <3

W/C: 3.757

part one

"No, I'm fine. You know, I get nauseous when we run around the stadium with a full stomach." I tell Luis as he offers me one of his packed sandwiches.

He hums, taking the last bite of his sandwich while observing the streets of beautiful Madrid,  looking comfortable in the passenger seat.

It was match day against Union Berlin, the first in the group stages of the Champions League. We were all pretty optimistic about it.

"Can you hand me some gum instead? It's in the glove box." I point, placing my hand back on my steering wheel as I take a left turn. The Santiago Bernabéu Stadium coming into sight.

He leans over, grabbing the blue packet of gum, quickly removing the plastic foil.

"How many pieces do you want?" He asks, crumpling the foil with his hand.

"Two please." I say, lowering the volume of the radio as we enter the staff parking lot of the stadium.

I notice him unwrapping the individual pieces of blue gum and extend my hand so he can place them in my palm. 

"Thanks." I mutter, popping them into my mouth after I manage to find a parking spot.

"When is the team arriving?" He asks as we step out to collect the camera equipment out of the trunk. I make sure to hand him his staff badge, clipping mine to my lanyard.

"Twenty minutes, I think." I say, helping him with the equipment bag. We quickly make our way towards the pitch, greeting fellow staff members. Luis sets the camera up as I check our drafts quickly.

We finally finish taking videos and pictures of the pitch after a few minutes, our staff badges hanging off our necks as we walk back inside to capture the players walking into the stadium.

"Okay, I've posted the Instagram stories. Mind if you take a look?" I ask Luis, showing him the short clips of the pitch and stadium.

"Looks fine, but you know you don't have to get it double-checked anymore. You've been doing this for a while now." He nudges me, expression reassuring.

"I know, just making sure." I say, analyzing the posts one more time. I didn't want anything to go wrong or look particularly weird, plus it would give Valeria a reason to complain about me.

We make sure to get good shots of the squad entering the stadium, following them out to warm up as well. Finally, we get to sit down when the match starts. We update the social media platforms of the club accordingly during halftime, just as planned.

So far, it was still a goalless game, prompting us to have higher expectations in the second half of the match.

Though, the second half isn't that much more climactic, but we all sit on the edge of our seats when extra time is announced. My finger hovering over the 'post' button of a 1-0 ‘X’ post.

Luis and I look at each other anxiously as we get awarded a corner. A commotion starts right before the net of Union Berlin, the ball bouncing back at first, and then GOALLL!

I practically slam the post button, the stadium erupting in cheers along with us. Finding it difficult to calm down, so we can focus on the last minutes of the game. With the assurance that we would win, Luis and I start packing our equipment quickly. It would make sure we could follow the team back into the tunnel and, of course, towards the changing room for the post-match interview.

"Who got Man Of The Match again?" I ask Luis, noticing a smirk form on his face immediately.

"It's Jude." He says, and I look at him with wide eyes, pulling an annoyed face.

"Really? Now I've got to interview him? It's going to explode his ego, like it can get any bigger..." I sigh, following Luis down the stands.

"You'll live." He mumbles, prompting me to sigh again, wishing I could speed up the next few minutes as if it were a boring Netflix show.

"Tell him to- put his shirt on." I urge Luis, nudging his arm, my hands falling to my side when he shakes his head.

We'd both already been in the changing room, and my eyes had caught multiple half-naked

players. Prompting me to exit instantly. I didn't want to intrude when the guys were changing for obvious reasons, so I walked myself out before things became really awkward. Though, they probably didn't care, I did.

"Why does it matter?" He asks, pushing my head away from his face.

"It's distra- or just say-"

"I'm ready."

I whip my head around, my head almost colliding with a hard chest. I quickly take a step back, a smug-looking Jude looking down at me.

What the fuck was he so tall for?

"Took you long enough." I mumble, rolling my eyes. Trying to pretend he didn't scare the crap out of me.

He scoffs, the ‘Player Of The Match’ award glimmering in his hand as if he's trying to show it off to me.

"Can we just do the interview so I can stop talking to her?" He says, looking at Luis. His eyebrows raising in question.

I click my tongue in annoyance, tapping my shoe against the ground impatiently. I watch Luis nod, his hand coming up to my shoulder as he pushes me closer to Jude.

I turn my head, looking at Luis confused. I mouth a 'what the fuck?' to him, his smirk getting wider as my arm collides with Jude's. A sudden panic and disgust creeping up to me.

"Let's just do it without my face." I blurt, immediately detaching myself from Jude's side, like he's a scorching fire ready to burn me.

I feel his eyes follow me as I walk to stand behind Luis. I fight to urge to kick the back of Luis's leg for whatever that was and just request him to start filming. Glad that the mic was already attached to the camera.

"3, 2, 1.." he counts down, pressing the record button. I try to fake my uppermost enthusiasm when I ask the questions to Jude. Watching his own expression change within milliseconds. It's like he wasn't just begging for the interview to start, so he could stop talking to me.

"¡Hala Madrid! ¡Buenos Noches!" He finally exclaims, raising the award excitedly. The interview finally ending.

The two minutes felt like an eternity, and he'd probably uttered the same sentence about 50 times now.

I sigh in relief, stepping back as I watch Jude and Luis give each other a handshake. We make eye contact for a split-second, my gaze cold as he looks at me with pure arrogance plastered on his face. Walking away to join his teammates, who had already walked out of the changing room.

"Can we go now?" I ask Luis, massaging my temples. He turns around, blankly staring at me. It creeps me out for a split-second.

"What?" I ask, frowning at him, folding my arms defensively.

"Nothing. It's late, let's go." He says, walking ahead of me. I watch him walk away for a couple of seconds, trying to decipher why he gave me that look. His back almost disappearing out of my sight before I knew it.

He walks past a couple players and staff members, them having their own conversations and being loud. Notably, Ancelotti walking with them.

I curse, clicking my tongue in annoyance. I start to walk fast, trying to catch up to Luis, who, at this point, wasn't even in my line of sight.

Suddenly, I hear Ancelotti call out my name, and I turn around like a deer in headlights. Slowly starting to consider leaving Luis in the parking lot, instead of driving him home.

"Something wrong?" I ask, looking at him cautiously.

Was I in trouble?

"Come here." He says, waving his hand. I look to his right, seeing a familiar group of players glance at me. It consisting of Vini, Cama, Aurelien, and Jude, again. Them laughing and banter amongst each other.

"Can you tell your father to call me? I need to speak with him." He adds, looking at me.

I nod, my expression changing to a less confused one, before reassuring him I would tell my dad.

"Then go on, it's getting late." He says, patting my shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

I smile at him, nodding and glancing at the guys next to him.

"Good game, guys! See you tomorrow." I say, fully in Spanish on purpose, waving and walking away as fast as I possibly can manage without looking crazy.

Luis was getting his ass left here, for sure.

"Dad! I'm home." I sing, taking my shoes off at the door, quickly storing them away in the shoe cabinet.

"I'm in the kitchen." He shouts back, and I make my way towards him.

"What are you doing?" I ask, seeing him stand in front of the open fridge.

"Grabbing dinner to heat up. You're hungry, right?" He says, and I nod, walking over to kiss his cheek in greeting.

"I'll do it, dad. You should go rest." I say, noticing him already dressed in his pajamas. I take the Tupperware of food out of his hands, placing it on the marble island.

"How was the match?" My dad asks, leaving to sit on one of the bar stools across from me.

"Good- we won." I say, pouring the tomato soup into a small pot. Placing it on the electric stove, before turning it on.

"I saw, Jude really saved the day. Amazing signing..." He chuckles.

My dad wasn't aware of the absolute disdain we had for each other, but I wouldn't want to bother him with it.

"Yeah, I guess he did." I mutter through my teeth, stirring the soup with a spoon. Making sure I don't scratch the surface of the pot.

"Oh! Mr. Ancelotti asked if you could call him. I think it's pretty important, since he asked me..." I remember, looking up at him from the stove.

"Why didn't he just call me?"

"Maybe, because you're always busy? He probably can't get a hold of you, or your secretary forgot to tell you. Which would be- weird." I say, watching him walk away to grab his personal phone off the dinner table.

"You're really calling him now? Dad, it's like ten at night. You need to stop thinking about work."

"It's alright, we're close enough." He says, calling the man of topic as he approaches the sliding glass door to the backyard, walking out.

I scoff in disbelief, shaking my head. I should've just told him tomorrow after breakfast.

I try to push those thoughts away, finally sitting down at the dinner table, putting on a binge-worthy show on the TV across from me. Enjoying my dinner with a can of Coke.

The ending credits of the episode and my empty bowl allow my mind to wander back to the day’s events. It was the first game of many for the Champions League. No doubt, our team would go far, we had a strong team with amazing support. I just hoped traveling while also studying could be manageable, especially this year.

I decide to give my brain a break from thinking critically, taking care of the dirty dishes, and sliding the backyard door open.

"Dad?" I call out, noticing him sitting on one of the pool lounge chairs. He turns to me, motioning for me to be quiet with a finger on his lip. I nod, mouthing a 'goodnight' and wave. He mouths it back, smiling at me. I nod, turning my back and walking up the stairs.

Arriving in my bathroom, I take a quick shower and do my nighttime skincare. Feeling very refreshed when I crawl into my bed, the silk pillowcase soft underneath my head as my eyes flutter shut.

The atmosphere today at the training center is very off.

Instead of the players looking happy and excited after their win yesterday, they look somber and tired. The vibe is gloomy, despite the sun shining brightly since early this morning.

Especially the younger guys. I didn't know what was wrong yet. They greeted me halfheartedly, unlike normally, and even Jude himself didn't give me one of his daily, annoying, egoistic looks.

I had asked around, and most other staff members told me they noticed the same, so it definitely wasn't just me making things up in my own head.

Maybe, just maybe, nosy Lina had some information.

I grab a tray, walking along the lunch buffet, and getting my food. I didn't want to bother fussing over all the options today, just opting to go for my usual. I don't forget to grab my drink, an Americano, iced this time to combat the September heat.

I look up to find Lina, my eyes finally catching her wavy, dirty blonde hair at our usual table, as I make my way towards her.

"Hey! Haven't seen you today. What's up?" I say, hugging her. I had been busy filming the recovery exercises of the players with Luis in the gym.

"Finished editing the footage you and Luis took yesterday." She says, smiling at me. Moving a lock of hair behind her pierced ear.

"Was the footage usable?" I ask, looking at my plate of food before looking back at her.

"Yeah, good as always. Posted it on YouTube already." She answers, and I turn to her after swallowing my bite of pancakes.

"Was the interview alright? Did it sound like we wanted to kill each other?"

"It was surprisingly good! You two just have that onscreen chemistry." A smile pulls at her lips, the outrageous statement causing me to freeze for a moment.

"Carolina! Don't ever say that again, please." I use her full name, giving her a look of disgust while shaking my head, horrified.

I hear her laugh mid-bite, she practically starts choking on her food. Prompting me to pat her back semi-aggressively. She finally calms down when I bring her drink up to her lips.

"Can I ask you something? It's about something completely unrelated." I say, changing the topic and looking around for any eavesdroppers.

"Go ahead." She says, clearing her throat for a moment.

"Have you noticed the younger guys- are acting a little off?" I say, choosing my words carefully, watching her eyes light up almost instantly.

She definitely knew what was up.

She nods, pulling me closer by my shoulders, and whispers into my ear.

"Apparently, last night after the match, the guys went to celebrate at a restaurant. When they dropped Jude off at his home- and I'm saying just what I have overheard. Someone tried to break into his place." She whispers, and I pull back to give her a bewildered expression.

"You're serious?" I ask, raising my brows.

"Yeah, something about his window being broken and a note being left."

"A stalker?" I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

She nods, pulling away from me.

"That's what I've heard. Apparently, this wasn't the first time it happened, it being the second time already. The younger players probably feel bad for Jude. They've all gotten pretty close and are probably worried about his, but also their safety." She explains.

Despite the bad blood between Jude and me, I had the heart to feel a little bad for him. I had morals at the end of the day.

"Doesn't his mom live with him?" I ask, recalling what I've heard around.

"She wasn't home, thankfully."

"That's good, at least." I reply, looking away for a moment.

"He'll probably have to start a legal process.." She adds, and I return my attention back to her.

"Where did you even hear all of this?"

"A good gossiper never reveals their sources."

"y/n, could you come here for a moment?" I hear Hugo speak. The head of PR and marketing for the club. Whom I had the opportunity to grow pretty close to last season.

I place the folders in my hand back on my desk, walking over to him curiously.

"What is it?" I ask, looking at the grey haired man. He's smiling, so it must be positive?

"I'm sure you're aware I chose you to provide content during matches, but also the match preparations this season, along with Luis."

I nod, eagerly waiting for his point to be made.

"I've seen what you and Luis put out yesterday. I'm very pleased so far, especially the interview with Jude. Feedback has been great online. Looked very nice and casual."

"Thank you, we tried our best to create the best content. I honestly couldn't have done it without Luis." I quickly say.

That was true, I don't think I could've done the interview without Luis, even though he was being a little weird about it.

Why was everyone obsessed with that interview anyway? It was just a normal, run-of-the-mill interview I did most of the time.

"Right, extend my praises to him as well. As you know, the CEO of Apple will be visiting us on Saturday. I'd like for you and Luis to capture the moment. Would you want that?"

Meeting the CEO of Apple, Tim Cook?

I would be crazy to refuse.

"Of course, I'm sure Luis would also appreciate the opportunity. Could you send us the details via email later?"

This was definitely a dream come true, especially for tech-nerd Luis. He looked up to these CEOs for inspiration all the time.

After the conversation with Hugo ends, I decide to finally clock out. I walk down the stairs, my bag slung around my arm as my eyes are glued to my phone. Wondering how Luis would react to the news.

I couldn't tell him in person since he wasn't on site at the moment. So, texting would have to suffice.

I reach the last few steps, my shoes stomping against them, finally taking a right at a corner.

Suddenly, my shoulder painfully crashes against another body. My bag falling on the floor, along with my phone which flies out of my hand.

I look up instantly, eyes locking with someone I don't recognize by name, but have definitely seen around. He's dressed in a brown T-shirt with some dark blue jeans, interesting wear for the weather today. He did look a couple years older, something like late twenties or early thirties.

I clutch onto my arm, trying to ease the pain as I start to apologize profusely. I want to be rude so bad, but I hold my words back with everything in me.

I wasn't watching where I was going, but still, he could have heard me stomp down the stairs.

"No, it's fine. It happens." He says, no actual emotions detectable in his voice. I reach down to grab my bag off the floor. Watching him bend down to grab my phone, which had landed on the floor about a meter away from me.

I stand back up, holding my bag with my unhurt arm.

"Here." He says blankly, handing me my phone. 

"Thank you." I say, grabbing the device. His cold fingers unexpectedly graze against mine, making me shudder as it creeps me, the fuck out.

I did not like whatever that was...

He was holding my phone right at its base, how did his hands even touch mine?

He looks at me for a second, his blue eyes piercing into my soul, as he then walks off, not saying another word. Leaving me standing there in confusion.

I snap out of my trance quickly, trying to forget whatever that interaction was. Finally, walking up to my car and unlocking it.

Most players and staff had left already. Recovery day was so fun, only because it meant getting off early.

After pondering for a few seconds, I decide to just visit my dad's law firm instead of going home directly. Mostly, because I hadn't been there in a while. I could see him, and work on my essay there at the same time.

Maybe, I could also convince the other lawyers there to give me feedback on my essay.

I connect my phone to the car, clicking on my current favorite playlist and increasing the volume of the speakers. Knowing my favorite songs could keep me company while I drove through the city.

I grab my own set of keys out of my bag after arriving. My dad had given it to me, so I could enter and leave the firm whenever I wanted. Giving me the freedom of not having to knock or press the intercom when I visited.

I insert the key in the keyhole of the front door, trying to twist it. I frown as the key doesn't actually twist, making me wonder if the lock was changed. I pull the key out, inserting it again, and try to twist the key.

I sigh as it doesn't work, looking around to see if anyone is staring at me. Only because I definitely looked like I was some stupid robber trying to break in, in broad daylight.

Thankfully, no one is looking my way, so I continue to struggle with the door. Mumbling some curse words in annoyance, a frown settling in between my brows.

I breathe in, inserting the key again, readjusting my grip on the doorknob as I twist the key. I push the door at the same time, the door unexpectedly flying open. My weight presses against the door as I fall inside, clutching onto the door handle for dear life. My ankle rolls painfully, and I let out a pained wince.

I hear a loud groan as I try to stabilize myself. I raise my brows confused, seeing my dad lean over to ask a guy who's cradling his head if he's alright.

I just slammed the door into a client’s face.

A mortified expression forms on my face as I realize the situation I caused. I immediately walk over to place a hand on the guys shoulder, apologizing repeatedly. My dad giving me the most disappointed look to date.

I glance over to the woman next to my dad, recognizing her within a heartbeat.

"Denise?" I ask, eyes widening in confusion. If she's here, then...

I notice my victim raise his head, a pained groan leaving him. We make sudden, unexpected eye contact. I freeze in shock and confusion, a little disgust following at the realization of who he is.

"Jude?"

"y/n?"

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude x reader #jude bellingham imagine #real madrid fc #jude bellingham fanfic #footballer x reader #football imagines #football fanfic #football imagine #bellingham x reader #real madrid

[campingwiththecharmings]

Can't Fight This Feeling

AN: In a bit of a writing slump so I went back and finished this WIP I've had sitting in my google docs for almost a year lol. Hope y'all enjoy~ (based off of a prompt from this post).

(Un-beta’d)

You and Santi have been dancing around your feelings for each other since the day you met.

Rated: T Words: 2,171 Pairing: Santiago “Pope” Garcia x F!Reader (wrote with a F!Reader in mind but since there's no smut, it can probably be read as GN) Warnings: alcohol consumption, unresolved sexual tension, probably way too much banter, LONGING, friends who are secretly in love with each other. AO3

——————

“Oh, come on, Santi, it’s my turn,” you pout, slouching against the wall where the dart board hangs. 

He takes a sip from his beer and chuckles, throwing one of the darts in his hand at the board by your head. You yelp in surprise as the loud thunk resounds in your ear and shoot him a glare.  

“Probably not the best place to lean, cariño,” he smirks, taking another sip. 

Frankie claps him on the shoulder, turning Santiago’s attention to him. “Hey, I’m callin’ it a night, man. I’m beat.” 

“Yeah, I think we will too, for obvious reasons,” Will says, gesturing to his brother who’s half asleep in the booth beside him.  

“But we just started another game, guys, you can’t leave yet,” you argue before stealing a swig from Santiago’s beer and giggling when tries to take the bottle back from you. 

Will shakes his head fondly, shooting Frankie a look you and Santi both miss while he’s chasing you around the pool table. You steal another sip and raise your eyebrows in challenge, giggling when he grumbles something under his breath. 

“What was that, Pope? Didn’t quite catch that,” you call, holding his beer bottle up tauntingly. 

He rolls his eyes. 

“Goodnight, kids. Be good,” Frankie calls, waving at the two of you. 

“Night, Fish!” you and Santi yell at the same time, sending you into a fit of giggles. 

There’s a chance you might be just a little bit tipsy. 

Santi shakes his head, raising an eyebrow as you absently take another pull from his beer.  

“You realize you owe me a beer now, right?” he asks, gesturing to the bottle in your hand. 

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’ before chugging the rest of Santi’s drink. “I won this fair and square.” 

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “More like ‘stole.’” 

“Like you stole my turn, you mean?” 

“I didn’t steal your turn.” 

“Yeah you did, I was supposed to go first.” 

“Says who?” he scoffs, leaning against the pool table. 

You pause, your brain sluggishly searching for a response. “The…gentlemen’s code.” 

He snorts, eyebrows raising in amusement. “The gentlemen’s code?” 

You nod, crossing your arms defiantly. “Yeah. You know, chivalry or whatever.” 

“Right,” he says softly, mischief in his eyes as he saunters over to you, invading your personal space. “And who said I was a gentleman?” 

There’s a heat flickering in his eyes as he holds your gaze, a small smirk on his lips. You swallow thickly, unable to look away, the spicy scent of his cologne making you feel lightheaded. 

“You want another round?” a voice says suddenly, dragging you both back to reality. 

You both jolt, jumping back from each other as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. 

“Yeah,” Santiago says, nodding at the waitress. “Thanks.” 

She nods distractedly, scribbling something on her notepad as she heads back to the bar. 

The dull thud and subsequent clatter of a dart bouncing off the wall brings his attention back to you. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” he says, watching unamused as you randomly toss darts at the board.  

“What?” you scoff, clutching the remaining darts to your chest. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” 

“What do you mean? I’m playing darts.” 

“No, you’re throwing darts. Playing implies that you have some kind of game plan or general knowledge of the rules.”

 “Oh. Wow, I am so sorry. Please teach me, oh, Master of the Darts.” 

He scoffs. “If I thought you were even remotely serious, I might consider it.” 

“Who says I’m not serious?” 

“‘Master of the Darts?’” 

You shrug. “What? It’s a better nickname than ‘Pope.’” 

The waitress returns with two more beers, setting them on the high top next to Santi. He thanks her, covertly slipping her a few bills as a tip. 

“Hey,” you say, bringing his attention back to you. “How come I don’t have a nickname?”  

He chuckles, twisting off the top of one of the bottles and handing it to you. “What are you talking about?” 

“You and Will and Benny and Frankie all have nicknames. How come I don’t have one?” 

He gazes at you in silence for a moment, opening the other beer and bringing it to his lips. You’re pouting, leaning your elbows on the high top.  

“Half a minute ago, you were going on about how stupid my nickname was.” 

“It is,” you say matter-of-factly. 

Santi laughs, coughing a little as he chokes on his beer. “Then why would you want one?” 

You twist your lips, putting your hand up to cradle your chin. “Better to have a stupid nickname than no nickname at all.” 

He contemplates this for a moment and then nods. “Fair enough. Want me to give you one?” 

You scoff, taking a pull from your bottle. “I don’t want a pity nickname, Garcia.” 

“Better to have a pity nickname than no nickname at all,” he teases, raising his eyebrows. 

You roll your eyes at him, biting back a smile. “Whatever.” 

He chuckles, taking another pull from his bottle. 

The night continues, and so do the drinks, the alcohol making you both klutzier and even more giggly. On your third round of darts, Santi takes it upon him to correct your (apparently) improper form when your dart bounces off of one of the framed photos on the wall and you dissolve into a fit of laughter.  

“C’mere, I wanna show you something,” he slurs, waving you over as he takes another swig from the bottle in his hand. 

You roll your eyes with a huff, but humor him nonetheless, shuffling over and giggling again when you trip over nothing. He waves you over again, this time more impatient and makes a weird flourishing motion with his hands when you stop in front of him. 

“Turn around,” he clarifies when you simply gaze at him in confusion, and you sigh again, doing as he asks. 

You wait, facing the wall with your back to him. After what feels like an eternity, you turn to glare over your shoulder at him. “Any day now, Garcia.” 

He scoffs, moving closer to you, so close he can feel the warmth of you through his clothes. He cups your elbow and moves your arm so you’re holding it at a 90-degree angle. Your hand with the dart is up by your head and his fingers are gentle as they shift yours, changing your hold around the dart. Your skin is smooth and soft and suddenly he wishes he could trace every inch of it. He pushes the thought away, grunting when you fight him a little, chuckling at his frustration; the sound sends a pleasant shiver through him. When he’s satisfied, he releases you, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. 

He leans in closer with the intention of matching your eye line, but instead ends up with his nose against the side of your neck, the intoxicating smell of you invading his senses. The urge to drag his nose along the shell of your ear is so strong he almost gives in, his breath ghosting over your skin. Instead, he halts, taking a step back, suddenly far more sober than he had been a moment ago. 

He looks up at the sound of his name, your face concerned as you gaze at him over your shoulder. “You okay?” 

He nods, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah, just, uh…got a little dizzy.” 

You turn toward him, now even more concerned. “Do you wanna sit?” 

He shakes his head, smiling slightly as he waves you off. “Nah, I’m good. We should probably call it night though…it’s late.” 

You study him silently for a moment, swaying slightly, before nodding and blinking at him blearily. “Yeah. I’m tired.” 

He smiles, grabbing your arm as you trip over nothing again. You snort, winding your arm around his and laying heavily against his shoulder. “Take me home, Pope.” 

Santiago grunts, stumbling a little at the vice grip you have on his arm, and moves to leave, throwing a few bills onto the table as he walks by. The night air is cool and crisp, sobering him even more, making it hard to ignore how good you feel pressed against his side. You both walk in silence, his brain replaying pieces of his night with you. 

“You’re quiet,” you say, eyeing him suspiciously when he turns to look at you. 

He forces a smile before looking ahead of him again, afraid he’s going to trip over something. “Just tired, like you said.” 

You nod, sighing as you lay your head against his shoulder. “I could fall asleep right now, to be honest.” 

His lips twitch, his actual smile threatening to spread across his lips. “Don’t let me stop you.” 

Your shoe catches on a crack in the sidewalk and you stumble a little, pulling on Santi’s arm and throwing him off balance. He grunts, and you giggle, somehow leaning into him even more than before. When you’ve both found your footing, he shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips. 

“Let’s get you home, you trainwreck.” 

Thankfully, your apartment isn’t far and you both make it safely to the door without further incident.  

“Sure you don’t need help getting up the stairs?” he asks, that crease between his brow deep with concern. 

You shake your head absently, your eyes trailing over the rest of his face—his strong brow, stately nose, chiseled jaw, and plush lips… 

He’s talking but you’re not sure what he’s saying, completely caught up in how gorgeous his face is. Is it weird that you want to touch it? Probably, you decide, yet still you can’t help but imagine whether his scruff would feel scratchy or like velvet against your fingertips. What would his lips feel like if you dragged your thumb across them? Would his chin feel as sharp as it looks if you cradled it in your hands? You want to know, need to know, the desire to touch him overtaking every thought or impulse in your brain until you finally say— 

"I like your stupid face.” 

He pauses, taken a little aback at the admission. After a moment, he snorts, brow furrowing as he chuckles. “Uh…thanks?” 

“It’s just so stupid,” you continue, trying to make sure he really understands. “It’s so…I like it. Can I touch it?” 

Santi chuckles again, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “You…wanna touch my face?” 

You nod, chewing your lip as you step a little closer, devouring him with your eyes. He swallows thickly, your suddenly ravenous gaze causing something warm to pool in his gut. 

“Can I?” you ask again, your voice soft, like a whisper. 

He shouldn’t, shouldn’t entertain this, especially with the state you’re both in right now, but damn if he isn’t curious to see what happens. So he nods. You smile at him almost dreamily and reach up with both hands to cup his cheeks. Santi’s breath catches a little at your touch, and it takes everything in him not to completely melt into it.

His stubble is a tad prickly against your palms, yet somehow still soft as you swipe your thumbs across his cheekbones. It tickles in such a delightful way; you can’t help but smile. Santi’s lips part as you gently caress his face, drawing your gaze to his mouth. His breath puffs against your skin as you drag your thumb over his bottom lip, unconsciously pulling your own between your teeth. It’s so soft, so pillowy. Your finger catches a bit of his stubble on one of your passes over his lip and your breath catches, the combination of soft and sharp sending a shiver through your body. Suddenly, you wonder what it might be like, how it would feel, to have his lips pressed against yours, his five o’clock shadow scratching against your skin. What would it feel like elsewhere? Against your neck, perhaps or…between your thighs? Unable to stop yourself, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, your eyes fluttering slightly as the hair on his face tickles your lips. 

You swallow thickly as you pull back, your skin warm, heart beating wildly in your chest. Santiago’s eyes are heavy, pupils wide and dark as he stares at you, your hand still on his face. You sober a little then, shaking your head slightly with a breathy chuckle as you release him and step away. 

“Well, uh,” you say, clearing your throat as you awkwardly shove your hands in your pockets. “Goodnight then, I guess.” 

Santi can’t find the strength to do much more than nod, his mouth still slightly open as he watches you walk up the steps that lead to the front door of your building. 

You wave before you head inside, cringing a little at yourself as you turn away, hoping he won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

🌟 Masterlist 🌟

i am no longer doing a taglist. please follow @charmingupdates for updates and turn on notifications.

#santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia x you #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier fic #my fic

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

•Masterlist • ao3 • want to be tagged? •

🍑It's my first time doing Kinktober (let's see if I finish it!) I've using @flightlessangelwings awesome Prompt List.

🍆Also to challenge myself I've used a random generator to choose which kink out of the options and which character(s) to use. (I'll write a note if I had to choose again for whatever reason. I did limit later on in the month as there were 2 characters who hadn't come up yet, and I wanted at least 1 fic for each of them 😄)

🍑I'm really hoping to finish this, even if they aren't all posted on the correct day 💚

🍆I'm not planning on using my normal tag list, because I don't want to harass/overwhelm anyone. And I know there are some characters here that aren't everyone's cup of tea. If you would like to be tagged for this/certain parts let be know, or you can find them on my masterlist when they're posted.

Love Bites - Steven Grant

2. Knife Play - Jack Mojave

3. Exhibitionism - Llewyn Davis

4. Sex Pollen - Steven Grant

5. Sensory Deprivation - Anselm Vogelweide

6. Bondage - Nathan Bateman

7. Slow and Soft - Prince John

8. Cockingwarming - William Tell

9. Pegging - Marc Spector

10. Anal - Steven Grant

11. Seduction - Santiago Pope Garcia

12. Formal Wear - Club!Blue Jones

13. Anonymous Sex - Shimmer!Kane

14. BDSM - Robbie Paulson

15. Against A Wall - Santiago Pope Garcia

16. Lap Dance - Club!Blue Jones

17. Praise Kink - Robbie Paulson

18. Dacryphilia - Orderly!Blue Jones

19. Voyeurism - Basil Stitt

20. Orgy/Group - Club!Blue Jones & Cecil Dennis

21. Piercings - Jake Lockley

22. Voice Kink - Steven Grant

23. Begging - Nathan Bateman

24. Edging - Anselm Vogelweide x Club!Blue Jones (Trine)

25. Orgasm Denial - Nathan Bateman

26. Choking - Cecil Deniis

27. Period Sex - Poe Dameron

28. Cockrings - Anselm Vogelweide x Club!Blue Jones (Trine)

29. Cream Pie - Miguel O'Hara

30. Cunnilingus - Bud Cooper

31. Surprise!

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #my writing #fanfic #I spent far to long making the banner and being silly drawing the peach and aubergine

[nerdieforpedro]

WIP Wednesday Game

Tagged by @wannab-urs @frenchiereading @megamindsecretlair @pedroshotwifey

Thank you all tagging me 🥰 You all know I always have ideas, the problem is usually follow through. 😂 and completion.

Step one: Post snippets of the fics you're working on (can be a summary if there's no snippet)

Step two: put them in a poll and let people vote on which one you should work on, then prioritize the one with the most votes.

Step three: Ask me about my WIPs! I've got lots of lore to share + more snippets, etc.

My March Spring Prompts! I’m really enjoying doing them this month. I’ve been trying to include as many different Pedro and Oscar characters as possible with some connecting drabbles. 🥰

A sample of part two of "The Lake between Us" (Thank you all for enjoying part one, I didn't quite expect such a response for it. Should I make a tag list for it? 🤔) Ezra AU x plus size OFC - name in future parts:

Things were tenuous at first but they worked out she’s to call him ‘Uncle’ or Mr. Ezra. It worked better in social situations and she became his little ‘Birdie.’ Scaling down the jobs he took on to mitigate risk was a challenge and were worth less but he had to live not only for himself now. The pair moved around some before he enrolled her in school in Louisiana but ensured that he taught her when she came home in the evenings and on the weekends. The child hated the extra lesions, but it enabled her to be leagues ahead of her peers as far as studies went. Ezra was determined not to suffer another fool and would do what he could so that Cee wouldn’t follow in her father’s steps of idiocy. The results of his care, diligence and support was realized at both her high school graduation which he had never imagined attending anyone’s graduation except his own and to travel with his charge to see the college she’d chosen.

Nuestras canciones (Our Songs) Santiago Garcia x Amalia (plus size OFC) @reallyrallyauthor liked my Santiago spring prompt for today so I felt motivated to finally write another part to this mini-series:

Santiago saw a woman by herself lost in the music, the glow from her skin from perspiration. He didn’t see a reason why he shouldn’t make his way over to her so he did, but he waited until she opened her eyes again and was surprised by him. She laughed and apologized where he told her there was no reason to. Holding his hands out, she peered down and slid her fingers along his palms. The last song died down and the next started, it was slower, sensual, intimate. Garcia interlocked his fingers with hers as they moved back and forth, step by step. His eyes met hers, pulling one of her hands toward him and placing it on his shoulder. His palm found a place on her hip as his lips skimmed her forearm up to her shoulder, pulling her closer. They didn’t say anything as they moved in sync. Once the music ended this time, they stepped outside so they could hear each other speak. By the time they finally exchanged phone numbers, the club was emptying out and Amalia looked toward her friends as did Santiago. The pair had spoken about the dancing, club, food, drinks, if they were single, music and a few bad jokes. Well, between the both of them, quite a few bad jokes. 

My third WIP is one that I choose to blame @mysterious-moonstruck-musings since she fancies herself a sweet Dieter. So I gotta deliver because this is what she wants apparently. 🤭 I have vibes and two paragraphs at this point. Basically, you meet Dieter through one of his PA (because he's got 4 or 5 personal assistants who keeps track?) and he finds drawn to you? Was it crocs? Was it pizza? Was it a two am dance party to Paramore and Linkin Park? Maybe it was all of them or something else entirely? I'll work it out.

My last WIP is one I've been kicking around for a bit. It's a WIP I have with Marcus Pike. I've been dabbling him after a shooting or passing his firearm recertification exam and having PTSD (because I haven't tortured a Pedro character recently 👀) This one is also vibes, still working it out. I started mentioning therapy in my March prompts and it snowballed into this WIP.

This is what I have this week. Poor Javi G's outline still isn't vibing with me. I am going to figure it out though. 😭

Let me know if you have any questions about any of them. 🤗

NPT: @maggiemayhemnj @magpiepills @morallyinept @inept-the-magnificent @covetyou @chronically-ghosted @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot @gemmahale @schnarfer @romanarose @perotovar @soft-girl-musings @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @tinytinymenace @alltheglitterandtheroar @drawingdroid @yourcoolauntie @trulybetty @hannibals-favourite-meal @thefrogdalorian @gasolinerainbowpuddles

#wip wednesday game #my WIP #wips #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #dieter bravo #Marcus pike #santiago garcia #ezra prospect

[foxilayde]

ahh, i hope i‘m not too late for the Angst prompts…i never see these posts on time! plus: i‘m not good at making decisions so i go for 3. OR 9. with Pope please!!

You're not too late! Thanks for the prompt!

Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader

Rating: T

Word count: 750

“Gunna be real honest with you, Pope, when you invited me to a soccer game today, I did not picture this…”

The community park soccer field is occupied with confused children in the 4 to 5 age range, all decked out in mini regulation accoutrement, little matching uniforms with numbers, shinguards that serve little purpose for the low impact environment, and the tiniest cleats you’ve ever seen. It’s cute, for sure, but once could hardly call the distracted, clumsy, ball kicking with time outs occurring every 30 seconds, a “sport”. 

Pope chuckles and offers you his bag of sunflower seeds. “Well what’d you expect? Lyla is only 5.” 

“For some reason I thought she was older? Or maybe I was thinking of your other niece, the one in middle school.”

“Lydia?” 

“Yeah! Thought this would be a high school match or something. Don’t get me wrong. This is adorable. Just not what I was picturing.”

“Lydia doesn’t do sports. She does play in her school’s jazz band though.”

“Looks like Lyla isn’t interested in sports either. Isn’t that her? Number 22? Sitting down and picking a dandelion?”

Santiago squints his eyes under his navy blue ball cap, “What? Oh jeez.” Santi sets the bag of seeds down on the bleacher seat and stands up, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouts at the little players. “Lyla! Sweetie! Put down the thing and go for the ball! Kick the ball!” 

Lyla turns around and pushes her tangled hair out of her eyes, she stands up and waves at him, dandelion in hand, “Hi uncle Santi!” 

The surrounding parents on the bleachers are giving ‘uncle Santi’ annoyed looks and shaking their heads. He shoos her with his hand to go in the direction of the action at the middle of the field. She obeys and runs as fast as her little legs can carry her to join her teammates. 

“Sit down! I think you’re going to get us kicked out.” You laugh, grabbing his bag of seeds to clear his space on the bench. 

He pulls his jeans at the thighs before sitting back down. He leans forward more now, properly chastising himself for paying more attention to you than to Lyla who he’s supposed to be babysitting. 

“You ever think about having your own?”

“My own what?” Santi mumbles distractedly, physically restraining himself from shouting at Lyla that she’s got a clear shot at the goal and to “go for it!”

“Your very own soccer field.”

Santi cocks his head and glances confused at you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

 You roll your eyes, “Your own kids, genius.”

Santi shakes his head and spits a sunflower shell on the metal floor of the bleachers. “No way. Not in the cards.”

“It’s not that crazy of a question, Pope. You’re really good with your nieces.” 

Santiago nods, accepting the compliment. He tries to be a net positive in their lives. He makes every effort to be involved when he’s asked to be. Truthfully nothing makes him happier than being ‘Uncle Santi’, but that’s all it’s ever going to be. He can’t raise a family. Not with his job, not with his PTSD, not with his bad knees, not with his nightmares that break through to real life and leave him screaming and sweating in the middle of the night. He’s reliable and fun with the kids, he’s appropriately harsh when he needs to be, but he knows he can’t be a full fledged father. He’d never be able to live with the future disappointment any offspring are sure to have in him. 

“Don’t give me that look.” You’re not sure what look he’s talking about, he can’t even see your face with his eyes trained on the field. “I’m not having any for the same reasons you aren’t having any.”

“The insane biochemical urge to change identities at the hint of commitment?”

Santiago’s smile reaches his eyes. “Exactly. You know as well as I do, happy endings don’t happen for people like us.” 

Before you can retort, Santiago leaps to his feet again and shouts “Go, go, go, go, go! Yes!” Lyla scored a goal. And in the right net, too. You clap and cheer with the rest of the crowd. “That’s my girl!” Santi shouts, wolf whistling to the annoyance of the surrounding parents and guardians. 

He might not get a happy ending, especially if he doesn’t think he deserves one. But he’s got a pretty happy middle. 

#Santiago Garcia x reader #Oscar Isaac #this was kind of more fluffy than angsty lmao

[explorerspack]

man i love crop....

#i know that everyone who's in a dnd game that they really love thinks that theirs is the best in the world but like #rip to the rest of you i'm the one who's actually correct about it #for some reason this post was prompted by. santiago. #i just think. man. ripple effects! the embellishments of the story and things that weren't strictly TRUE but #oh boy are they narratively true! #i like this game so much....i like all the people SO much....i like all the things to consider and angles to consider them from SO much.... #c:crop

[writefightandflightclub]

Disarming (Santi x fem!reader)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GIF: @nathan-bateman​

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

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

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

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

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

…Most of the time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes. Well?

“We’re gonna have to share a room.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh dear.

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

Right. Ha.

What could possibly go wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord, does he have to smell so… edible.

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

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

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

You’re not ready for that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially in that damn suit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, he did think of you, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t half sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soft smile blooms on your face.

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

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

So, you simply let him hold you.

To disarm you further.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Operation Wedding Day is go.

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

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

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

Ready. Are you ready?

Thoughts of last night swirl in your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie and Mila get hitched without a hitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least… you think so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready. Are you ready?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Santi.”

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

You know he will take care of you.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END

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

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

[peralta-guaranteed]

a prompt 👀💜 "why are you sleeping on the couch?"

(I got some sadder ‘Jake sleeps on the couch’ moments in ‘Jake’s thoughts post He Said She Said’ and ‘Jake’s worst nightmare’ so let’s go for a softer reason)

She wakes up from the cold air on her skin alone, and shivers as she turns almost instinctually to her left for her personal body heat source, only to notice the duvet next to her folded open, the other side of the bed empty, the human radiator she so wisely married to keep her heated during chilly nights like tonight nowhere in sight.

It used to be cause for alarm, or at least worry, to find Jake gone in the middle of the night. She remembers finding him huddled down on the bathroom floor, huffing out quiet sobs he’d try to swallow so she wouldn’t wake from them. Or pacing through the apartment, trying to busy his racing mind with any kind of cleaning task that wouldn’t make too much noise, but was distracting enough to keep the fear in his brain at bay.

Nowadays, she doesn’t worry too much anymore - the routine of alternating nursery trips for the two of them is still a fairly new one, but it has settled into her mind enough that she knows she’ll only need to tiptoe over the icy wooden floor to the little room a few doors down to probably find Jake swaying a fidgety baby, or, if they’re lucky, already putting a sleeping Mac back into his cot so he can be quickly dragged back into bed to warm her up.

Except she finds the nursery empty, and just as cold as the bedroom.

There is the briefest jolt of panic in her chest, and goosebumps on her neck that have nothing to do with the cold creeping up it, her mind immediately racing through the next logical steps to figure out the ‘crime scene’ her detective brain immediately jumps to, until she hears the soft scratchy sound of Jake’s not-quite-snoring-but-also-definitely-not-NOT-snoring echo through the hallway.

They’re on the couch, and it takes all she has not to swoon at the sight - Jake practically star-fishing on the cushions, arm and leg hanging off the sides, snoring softly as the swaddled up baby on his chest rises and sinks with every deep breath, dad’s watchful hand on his diapered bum to keep him from moving too much, even as he’s deep asleep. She manages to turn the squeal in her throat into only a soft giggle before she leans over the armrest, drags her fingers through Jake’s curls and scratches his scalp until his eyes start to blink open like they always do.

“Hey.” She whispers, as he grunts and twists his head left and right to wake up sore muscles. “Any reason you picked a freezing couch over a soft cot and a warm bed with a wife in it?”

“What?” He whispers back, still blinking.

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

“Wasn’sleeping.”

“You were snoring, babe.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Alright.” She sighs, not giving that argument any more debate time. “Why were you clearly not sleeping with Mac on the couch on one of the coldest days of the year?”

“He’s extra fussy tonight.” Jake yawns as he sits up, cradling Mac tight so he doesn’t wake up. “Every time I got him down he’d pipe up a minute later. I thought we’d just camp out on the couch for a while until he got it out of his system.”

“I didn’t hear anything-”

“Yeah, I turned the baby monitor off.”

“Why?? We said we’d take turns-” Amy almost pouts while watching him switch Mac from his chest into his arms without jostling him, like the pro he’s become in the past few months.

“You got that big meeting tomorrow, I wanted to let you sleep.”

She scratches through his hair once more for that, presses a kiss to his cheek and marvels at the fact that despite subzero temperatures, no blanket and a barely heated living room, he still feels warmer than she is right now. It makes her reach down, stroke much more carefully over Mac’s forehead to check-

“Don’t worry, I bundled him up good.” Jake whispers. “I know he’s got the Santiago freeze gene too.”

She huffs in response to his grin, but he’s right - Mac’s already sensitive to the cold, they’ve learned, and he’s clearly swaddled in the thickest baby blanket they have, only his face and one tiny fist peeking out of it, and his skin feels as warm as his dad’s, whose body heat he was probably stealing during their couch nap as much as Amy wants to right now.

“Maybe that’s why he was so fussy. You kept him warm but then put him back into a cold cot.” The look on Jake’s face tells her enough about the fact that he hadn’t even considered that an option, and she chalks it up to sleep deprivation addling his usually smarter brain. “Let’s take him in with us to keep him warm, and not have both of you turning into icicles on the couch.”

“I’m fine.” Jake boasts, but then grins again. “You just want your personal space heater back in bed with you.”

“Yes, I do. I’m freezing my butt off right now, and I can’t show up at the meeting tomorrow buttless.”

“Can’t have anything happen to that lovely bum.” Jake’s grin breaks into another yawn as he stands up, Mac snuffling quietly as they make their way back into the bedroom. 

She’s a lucky woman, Amy thinks as she watches Mac curl into a little ball on Jake’s right arm as they’re laid down again, the same way she does around his left side, sliding her icecold feet between his shins to no protest. And not just because she married a human radiator.

#B99 #Brooklyn 99 #Peraltiago #Jake Peralta #Amy Santiago #my writing #ficlet #fic

[merakiaes]

WHAT I CURRENTLY WRITE AND DON’T WRITE

PAYMENT - COMMENTS EQUALS NEW CONTENT (PLEASE READ)

(Characters and fandoms for which requests are open are below the cut so if you don’t want to read the guidelines, you can just scroll down there. However, I do recommend you to at least skim through the “I don’t write”-section to make it easier for both of us!)

(IF YOU WANT TO REQUEST ME TO GIVE YOU A SHIP, SEE THIS SEPARATE POST)

MY ONLY RULE:

If you make a request, anonymous or not, you have to leave a comment on your fic. (Read more about why here.) Even better would be if you reblogged it to help get my work out to more readers!, but I will settle with a comment if you, for some reason, don’t want to reblog. 

This means there should always be a minimum of one comment under every requested fic I post - if I see that this isn’t being followed, I’m going to stop writing requests. Simple as that.

With that said, don’t bother requesting if you’re not ready to make this exchange because that’s just unpaid work. 

I DON’T WRITE:

Smut.

Songfics.

Headcanons.

Specified and inappropriate/illegal age gaps. Example, an underage student and an adult teacher.

Specified body types.

Body image issues & ED’s.

Male reader.

POC reader.

Specified physical features. (Hair colors, eye colors, etc.)

I try to stay as neutral to physical appearance as I possibly can so that everyone gets an equal chance at emerging themselves into the role, no matter the reader’s ethnicity, height, build, and so on.

Writing plus size!reader and writing about eating disorders and body immage issues is too triggering for me as I, myself, struggle with body dysmorphia on a daily basis.

TO THINK ABOUT WHEN REQUESTING:

Don’t be too vague with your request. For example, a request asking for a fic where “the reader is a character x’s sister”, or "the reader is shy” or”sassy”, is not enough for me to go on. I need a scenario, a plot, an action, an endgame, or a dialogue prompt.

Contrary to the previous point; don’t make requests with too much detail or too long of a timeline, either. I don’t have the energy nor time to write requests that are spread out over eternity and that would end up being as long as a novel.

When requesting prompts from my prompt-lists, ALWAYS include the number and name of the list, not just the quote. The lists you can request for are the following:

Fluff Angst Smut Kiss Hug Common tropes

Don’t get pissy if you request something and I kindly tell you that I don’t write that kind of thing, whatever it may be. I’ve had to deal with this a lot lately and it’s really annoying. All writers have their own, individual preferences, and that’s their right.

Keep in mind all that is written above, and feel free to send several requests if you want to guarantee that you get at least one of them done - some things are easier to write than others and I always appreciate having requests to pick from depending on my mood and current motivation.

Requests are currently open for the following fandoms and characters. Please send in requests!

CRIMINAL MINDS

Spencer Reid

Aaron Hotchner

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MARVEL

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Peter Parker (Tom Holland & Andrew Garfield)

Loki Laufeyson

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TWILIGHT

Paul Lahote

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TEEN WOLF

Derek Hale

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Obi-Wan Kenobi

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Armitage Hux

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TRIPLE FRONTIER

Ben Miller

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PEAKY BLINDERS

Tommy Shelby

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Finn Shelby

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Ada Shelby

PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN

James Norrington

Will Turner

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THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE

Luke Crain

Steve Crain

Theo Crain

MISCELLANEOUS

Dan Torrence (Doctor Sleep)

Detective David Loki (Prisoners)

Floyd Lawton (Arrow)

Smitty Ryker (Hacksaw Ridge)

Captain James Nicholls (War Horse)

Sam Drake (Uncharted)

Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead)

Rick Flag (Suicide Squad)

Nathan Prescott (Life Is Strange)

Sweet Pea (Riverdale - first season only)

Jace Wayland (The Mortal Instruments, 2013)

Murtagh Morzansson (Eragon)

Jason Lee Scott (Power Rangers, 2017)

Jesse Zeklos (Vampire Academy)

Matt Campbell (The Haunting in Connecticut)

Nick Jones (House of Wax)

Ludovica Storti (Baby)

Reid Garwin (The Covenant)

Tyler Simms (The Covenant)

Fezco (Euphoria)

Feel free to reblog this to spread the word!

#spencer reid x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #derek morgan x reader #draco malfoy x reader #fred weasley x reader #tony stark x reader #remus lupin x reader #steve rogers x reader #peter parker x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #scott lang x reader #bucky barnes x reader #stephen strange x reader #ben miller x reader #will miller x reader #francisco morales x reader #santiago garcia x reader #tommy shelby x reader #james conrad x reader #eric coulter x reader #floyd lawton x reader #sam drake x reader #daryl dixon x reader #andrew siwicki x reader #detective loki x reader #bash x reader #steve harrington x reader #billy hargrove x reader #jon snow x reader #sandor clegane x reader

[coldflasher]

Title: don’t threaten me with a good time Chapters: 1/1 Length: 7.7k Fandom: The Flash (TV 2014) Rating: Gen Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Minor/Background Relationships: Cisco Ramon/Kamilla Hwang, Barry Allen/Iris West Characters: Barry Allen, Cisco Ramon, Kamilla Hwang, Caitlin Snow, Killer Frost, Iris West, Leonard Snart, Original Male Characters Additional Tags: Alcohol, Drunken Shenanigans, Bisexual Barry Allen, The Flash 7x12 Good-bye Vibrations.

Kamilla leaned forwards to read the front page. “The Barry Allen Drunkenness Scale.” Bemused, she looked up. “What’s this? “This,” said Cisco, “is the result of a great deal of research and a number of hard-earned lessons.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside her, pulling the folder towards them. “There are eight stages of Drunk Barry, each one with a varying level of severity. It begins with stage one.”

Inspired by the Santiago Drunkenness Scale from Brooklyn-99. Team Flash are throwing a party to celebrate Kamilla and Cisco’s departure from Central City, and Kamilla wants to make sure they go out with a bang. But with great power comes great responsibility, and sometimes responsibility means making sure your friend doesn’t break the sound barrier by doing the worm at Mach 2.

Read on AO3

@dctvgen​ (i hope this is okay!! didn’t really use any prompts but i had this one saved up and seemed like a good time to post it, lmk it’s not suitable!!)

Life came at you fast. After seven years being besties with a speedster, working to save the world, Cisco knew that to be true in more ways than one. But apparently despite everything he’d seen, it still had the capacity to surprise on him.

One minute the thought of leaving Central City had been a vague, abstract thought – a ‘what-if’ or a ‘maybe’ he dwelled upon whenever yet another crisis announced itself with a shower of broken glass raining into his Vibeuccino, or when he’d compared the news in Central City, which was all doom and gloom and murderous metas, to somewhere nice and peaceful like Keystone, where the biggest news story of the day was some kid winning the national Spelling Bee Championship. Then the job offer came in, and Kamilla had tested the waters with wanting to leave – and now their stuff was all packed and in boxes, he had a start date at ARGUS, and what had been a daydream was now a very clear reality. He’d hung up the gloves, said a final goodbye to Vibe.

It was the other goodbyes that were going to be the hard part.

“It just feels weird, you know?” he said, pausing in the middle of hanging bunting from the corner of the cortex. “We’re saying goodbye to everyone we know. This has been my life for almost eight years now. Team Flash are my family. It feels weird to celebrate leaving all that behind.”

“Don’t think of it as a celebration of what we’re leaving behind,” said Kamilla, who was sat at the desk, partway through ordering pizza. “Think of it as a celebration of everything we’ve accomplished. Making friends and building inventions and saving the world! I know it’s difficult and change can be scary, but it doesn’t have to be. We’ve done amazing things, and I think it’s important to honour that.”

Cisco sighed as he successfully stuck the flags to the wall. He climbed down from the table he was stood on and joined her at the desk in his usual chair, pushing himself back and forth with his foot. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re always right. I’m not getting cold feet, I promise. I’m excited. We’re going to make this work. We’ve done amazing things, and we’re going to do even more. Together.”

Kamilla beamed. “That’s the spirit.” She held out her hand for a fist-bump.

Grinning, Cisco returned it. “You’re such a dork.”

“Which is exactly why you love me,” Kamilla countered, with a few final clicks and a flourish as she placed the pizza order. She consulted the list on her phone. “Okay, so we’ve got the cake, the decorations, the drinks, and the pizza is in transit. There’s just one more thing we need.”

She slid past him and made her way towards the small metallic fridge tucked away in the corner. Kamilla typed in the passcode 05-20-80 – the release date of The Empire Strikes Back – and the fridge unlocked with a clunk, revealing two test tube holders – one containing a single emergency vial of Velocity IX, and another that held eight tubes of liquid a few shades lighter than blood.

Cisco glanced over, bemused. “Babe, did you stash your Kraft beers in my security fridge? Because that seems a little excessive.”

Kamilla eased the second rack of tubes off the shelf like a tray of freshly baked cookies out of the oven. “No, I’m just getting a couple of vials of 500 proof for Barry. I didn’t want him to feel left out of the festivities.”

Cisco had met a lot of speedsters in his time, but in that moment he was pretty sure he moved faster than any of them as he sprinted across the room to intercept. Startled, Kamilla jerked back and the test tubes clinked together like champagne glasses mid-toast.

“Sorry, can we just back up a little bit – you’re what now?” said Cisco.

“I’m grabbing some drinks for Barry,” Kamilla repeated slowly. “This is his special speedster booze, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Cisco said nervously. “It is, but…”

“But…?” Kamilla prompted.

“Listen,” he said, hands up in a pacifying gesture. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but that is a highly controlled substance and it’s really in everyone’s best interests if you put it back.”

Kamilla grew wide-eyed. “Why? Is it dangerous?”

“I mean, if any normal person drank it, it’d pretty much liquidize their insides, but that’s not the problem.”

As he spoke, Cisco headed over to the shelf on the wall, ran his fingers along the various binders tucked onto the shelf, and pulled one off. Cisco carried it over to the table, pushed aside the keyboard and laid the folder flat in front of her.

“The problem,” he said, flipping it open, “is this.”

Kamilla leaned forwards to read the front page. “The Barry Allen Drunkenness Scale.” Bemused, she looked up. “What’s this?”

“This,” said Cisco, “is the result of a great deal of research and a number of hard-earned lessons.” He picked up the metal test tube rack and returned it to the fridge, his fingers flying across the buttons to input the code before he slid the vials back into place. “It’s also the reason why this stuff doesn’t leave the lab except in dire emergencies, including but not limited to break-ups, deaths and severe metahuman disasters.” Decisively, he closed the fridge and it locked again with a clunk and a beep.

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you are fortunate enough to have never before encountered an inebriated Barry Allen,” said Cisco. “Let me walk you through it.” He pulled up a chair and sat beside her, pulling the folder towards them. “There are nine stages of Drunk Barry, each one with a varying level of severity. It starts with stage one.”

 1 DRINK BARRY: A LITTLE CLINGY

One of Barry’s many wonderful qualities is his propensity for affection. Unimpeded by the bounds of modern-day toxic masculinity, 1 Drink Barry generously bestows physical affection on everyone he encounters. To put it plainly: he’s a hugger.

Standing outside Barry and Iris’ front door, Cisco checked his watch.

Usually at this time of night, he’d be hanging out in the cortex watching the red dot darting around on the monitor as Barry did a lap of the city, or in his lab tinkering with some new invention. Tonight, though, was different. They’d all agreed work was off-limits – time to take a hard-earned break. Cisco had been looking forward to it all week, but he guessed the rest of Team Flash didn’t share his enthusiasm, because they were late. That wasn’t like Caitlin at all. Shrugging, he lifted his hand to knock.

The click of heels made him turn just in time to see Caitlin bouncing up the stairs in her heels. “Hi, I’m here! Sorry I’m late; Frost and I couldn’t agree on an outfit.” She leaned in. “Did you bring the, uh…”

Cisco slid a silver flask out of his pocket slightly. “Sure did.”

“Then I guess we’re ready to go!”

“Damn right. …Ladies first?”

Caitlin knocked. They waited, listening to the rattle of six locks being unfastened one at a time, until the door opened to reveal Iris standing on the threshold wearing a tight red dress and a leather jacket.

Cisco whistled. “Damn. You look good.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” said Iris as she stepped back from the door to allow them entry. “Barry will be down in a second, he got held up at work, so he’s a little behind –”

There was a whoosh and a crackle of lightning, and Barry skidded to a stop beside her with windswept hair and a grin. “Here! Hey, guys.”

“Oh. Famous last words.” Iris reached for her purse and swung it onto her shoulder. “Well I’m also running late, so I’d better get going. You guys have fun! And try to stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I’m afraid we can’t make any promises, cos everybody knows there ain’t no party like a Team Flash party!” said Cisco. “You sure you don’t wanna come with us? It’s gonna be one hell of a night.”

“Thank you, but I’m going out with a couple of the girls from CCPN tonight, so… rain check?”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Cisco warned.

“You’d better.” She rested her hand on Barry’s arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too,” said Barry, and he leaned in for a kiss.

“Boo! Get a room!” Cisco hollered.

Iris rolled her eyes fondly. “Goodbye, Cisco,” she said, and headed out.

Cisco sighed. “And then there were three.” He looked from Barry to Caitlin and back again, stretching out on the sofa. “Okay, drinks!” He headed into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine in one hand and three glasses in the other.

“Uh, isn’t the drinking supposed to start after you leave the house?” asked Caitlin.

“Only if you’re an amateur! You always have a drink or two before going out on the town. It’s financially savvy.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” said Barry when Cisco offered him a glass. “No use wasting perfectly good alcohol when it doesn’t even touch the sides.”

“That,” said Cisco, “is why you’ll be drinking this.” He pulled out a silver flask from inside the breast pocket of his blazer. “I call it 500 Proof 2,” he said, and held it dramatically aloft like Frodo holding the one ring.

Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “Really?” she said.

“The name’s a work in progress,” he admitted. “But the drink itself…” He kissed the flask. “She’s ready to go.”

Barry eyed the flask warily. “I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on, you’ve earned it. The city can manage without the Flash for one night. Go on, live a little.” When Barry continued to look skeptical, Cisco started to chant. “Barry, Barry, Barry–”

Grinning, Caitlin joined in. Barry endured it for all of thirty seconds before he rolled his eyes and snatched the flask. Caitlin and Cisco both cheered.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” said Cisco.

He splashed wine into his and Caitlin’s glasses, and passed one to her. She took it with a twinkle in her eye.

“All right, Team Flash!” Cisco whooped, and they clinked their glasses against Barry’s flask before they all drank.

Barry pulled a face. “Jesus! That’s – that’s potent.” He coughed, eyes watering.

“You’re welcome,” said Cisco. “We made a couple of tweaks to the formula. It should stay in your system longer instead of just burning off in thirty seconds flat like the first batch.”

“It tastes like rocket fuel!”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll put some hairs on your chest,” Cisco said dismissively.

“You can say that again,” muttered Barry, massaging his chest.

“Speaking of hairs on your chest,” said Caitlin, curling up comfortably in her seat. “Did they grow back yet?”

“Not entirely,” admitted Barry. “It’s sort of a peach fuzz.”

“That’ll teach you not to get so close to my experiments,” said Cisco.

“Maybe it’ll teach you to label them better,” said Caitlin.

“Really? Don’t do me like that!”

“Sorry, it’s true.”

This triggered a bout of good-natured bickering as they debated the results of some of Cisco’s more disastrous experiments. Before long they were all laughing, loosened up by the drinks. Barry, who was perched on the arm of Caitlin’s chair, leaned against her.

“I love you guys, you know that?”

“We love you too, Barr – ooof! Oh. Okay,” said Caitlin, bewildered. Barry had slid off the arm of the chair and squeezed up next to her, taking up half the chair like a Great Dane still trying to sit in its owner’s lap.

“Look at him, he’s getting tipsy already,” Cisco teased.

“Shhh.” Barry rested his head contentedly on Caitlin’s shoulder. Amused, she patted his knee.

Cisco downed the rest of his drink. “All right, let’s get this show on the road.”

He offered Caitlin his hand – only to have Barry grab it instead. Then he grabbed Caitlin’s hand too.

“Oh, we’re holding hands?” said Cisco. “Is that a thing we do now?”

“It is when we’re running,” Barry said, grinning.

Caitlin’s eyes widened. “Oh. No, no, no runni–”

The rest of her sentence was lost to the wind.

 2 DRINK BARRY: KINDA CLUMSY

When Barry became a speedster, he gained a massive boost in motor functions, including enhanced reflexes that have massively improved his coordination. Prior to this transformation, his ability to walk unhindered across a flat surface was roughly equal to that of Bella Swan from Twilight. Two-Drink Barry is harmless, but he must be kept at a safe distance from breakable objects.

 Okay, so travelling at super speed sucked – Cisco would stick to breaches from now on, than you very much – but he had to admit it had its advantages. They’d beaten the evening rush by minutes and found themselves a table, where they had been comfortably situated for the past half hour. Since then the bar had filled rapidly, and now they were surrounded by people. Glasses clinked, bodies gyrated. All around them was laughter and the throb of music; he could feel the buzz of the bass against his elbows where they rested on the table.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” asked Caitlin. “No monsters, no metahumans… just the three of us having a few quiet drinks.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Cisco said darkly. “Also, I don’t know that the ‘drinks’ part is entirely accurate. The fastest man alive is about to lose his title. Where the hell is he?” Barry had offered to get the next round, but that was ten minutes ago and they hadn’t seen him since. Frowning, Cisco and scanned the room.

Just as he had started to get concerned, the crowd parted and Barry appeared with three glasses in his hands.

“It’s about time! What took you?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Barry. “I got held up at the bar, there was a huge li–”

Whatever he’d been about to say next was cut off as he abruptly tripped over his own feet.

All three drinks spilled everywhere. Lightning flickered as he lurched forwards to try and intercept, and he managed to right the glasses, but not before the majority of their contents had ended up all over the table.

Cisco’s plastic cup floated across the tabletop in a puddle of dismally fizzing coke, which dripped steadily into his lap. Caitlin looked down at her soaked sweater, hands held up in shock. Her eyes flared white.

“This,” snarled Frost, “is a cashmere sweater.”

Barry’s eyes were wide. “Oh my God, guys, I am so sorry.”

With a jerk of her head, Caitlin regained control. “It’s fine,” she said, then winced, presumably in response to whatever Frost snarled in the back of her head. “Really. It happens to the best of us.” She pulled the sopping wet fabric away from her with a grimace. “Um… does anyone have a tissue?”

“Let me get some paper towels!” said Barry.

Cisco reached out to stop him. “Actually, Barr, maybe you should –”

But it was too late: Barry had already turned around and crashed into a guy going in the opposite direction, who slopped beer all over himself. Cisco winced sympathetically.

“I’m sorry!” Barry said, while the guy glared and shook his wet hands.

“Maybe you should take a seat,” said Cisco.

Still apologising profusely, Barry sank onto his stool and shrank in on himself, nursing what was left of his drink while Caitlin went to get something to clear up the mess.

“So I guess those adjustments we made to the 500 proof are working, huh?” Cisco said with a smirk.

“Oh, they’re working,” said Barry. “Speaking of which, can I get a top-up?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Caitlin asked, returning with a wad of paper towels. She started to mop up the table.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I’m not even buzzed, seriously. Tipsy at best. Come on, hit me.” He waved at his drink.

Cisco and Caitlin exchanged looks. There was a slight flush to Barry’s cheeks, and his eyes were a little brighter than usual, but other than that he seemed stable.

“I have wanted to study how the speedforce interacts with alcohol,” Caitlin admitted. “Metabolic processes aside, I am interested to measure the effects.”

“What the hell,” Cisco said. He unscrewed the cap of the flask and tipped it in to Barry’s glass, pouring a generous measure. “Knock yourself out.”

Barry beamed and picked up his drink. “Cheers,” he said, and they all clinked their half empty glasses.

 Three Drink Barry: Barry Dance-Pants

This Barry is able to flawlessly replicate the choreography for every single Britney Spears music video unprompted. So far we have been unable to determine where he acquired this information.

They all agreed that it was best if Cisco got the next round. He didn’t retrieve the next lot of drinks any faster than Barry had – if anything, he was slower; people kept shoving in front of him every time he got close to the bar – but at least the glasses stayed upright this time. When he returned to the table, though, Caitlin was alone.

“Where’d Barry go?”

Caitlin frowned. “I thought he was with you.”

“Nope.” He passed her drink over to her.

Caitlin worried at her lower lip.

“Hey, don’t stress,” said Cisco. “Barry’s a big boy, he can take care of himself.”

“I don’t know. He’s been gone a while, and he wasn’t exactly steady on his feet. He might hurt himself.”

“Good thing we have a doctor on call,” said Cisco, sipping his drink.

“That’s not funny. Seriously, I’m worried about him. I’m not sure he should be left unsupervised.”

She had a point. Speed and immense clumsiness wasn’t a great combination – they’d learned that the hard way. Cisco downed the rest of his drink with a grimace. “All right, let’s go look for him.”

They got up and headed out onto the dancefloor. The music was so loud that the entire room vibrated, Britney Spears’ Womanizer throbbing through the room. Caitlin pulled back and made a face as she almost inhaled a mouthful of some stranger’s coarse blonde hair. She batted it away like cobwebs.

“Ugh. Remind me why we decided to come out on the busiest night of the week?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” muttered Cisco, craning his neck. “Man, I can’t see him anywhere. It’s like playing Where’s Wally? Hey – hey, excuse me! Can I just squeeze – guys?” He attempted to slide past a knot of people, only to give up with a frustrated sigh. “Jesus, it’s like talking to a brick wall. What the hell are they looking at?”

Caitlin stood on her toes. “It looks like...” She stopped. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

She grabbed his arm and steered him through the crowd, using him as a battering ram to force her way through. Eventually, breathless and sweaty, they made it to the outskirts of the dancefloor, where Cisco finally got a good look at exactly what had captivated everyone’s attention.  

Barry was in the middle of the dancefloor, tearing it up. He strutted up and down, squatted and slut-dropped before he arched his back and pumped his hips forward in several lewd thrusts. The crowd cheered.

“Oh my God,” said Caitlin.

“He is killing it!” Cisco cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Yes, Barry!”

Barry winked and blew a kiss, rolling over to air-hump the ground with an alarming level of enthusiasm.

“Should we maybe go over there?” asked Caitlin.

“In a second,” said Cisco. He held his phone up, pressed record and zoomed in on Barry’s gyrating body, careful to keep his face in shot. “I wanna get this for posterity’s sake.”

“Cisco!” Caitlin scolded, and reached out to cover the camera.

Cisco jerked the phone out of reach. “You are aware that his ringtone for you is still thirty seconds of you butchering Summer Lovin’?”

Caitlin pursed her lips. “On second thoughts,” she said. “I hope you’re getting this in HD.”

Cisco grinned and went back to recording.

*

“Okay, that’s a little embarrassing,” Kamilla conceded.

“That? That was iconic,” corrected Cisco. “The man has moves. I swear he was a professional dancer in another life. I still have that video; I’ll show you later if you ask me nicely…”

“I’ll hold you to it. But none of this explains why this stuff has to be so rigorously controlled. I mean, being clumsy, affectionate, kinda sloppy, tearing it up on the dancefloor… that sounds like pretty standard drunk behaviour.”

“The first three drinks aren’t the problem,” Cisco said darkly. “It’s what comes after that you have to worry about. See, drunk Barry is insatiable. One drink is never enough. Once he’s had a taste of that sweet, sweet 500 proof concentrated speedster juice, he won’t rest until he’s had more. And while he may be an icon, three-drink Barry soon gives way to…”

 FOUR-DRINK BARRY: LOUD BARRY.

Barry Allen is a hero in every sense of the word. Time and time again he has sacrificed everything for the noble goal of making the world a better place. Barry doesn't save lives for the glory or the recognition; he does it because it's the right thing to do. But four-drink Barry… he thinks a little recognition might be nice.

 The final chords of Womanizer faded out into a sea of applause. Beaming from ear to ear, Barry took a series of bows, flapping his hand as if to say, ‘oh, stop it!’ After a few more moments of thoroughly enjoying the spotlight, he disengaged from his loving admirers and headed back towards Cisco and Caitlin and slid breathlessly back into the booth. His sweaty hair stuck to his forehead.

“Where did that come from?” Cisco asked, impressed.

Barry shrugged. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Clearly. I think you just earned yourself another drink!”

Cisco handed him the flask, and Barry clinked it cheerfully against Cisco’s beer bottle before he tipped it back and swallowed with a grimace. His eyes watered.

“Damn. That never goes down any easier.”

“Well it is just concentrated alcohol,” Caitlin reminded him. “Speaking of which…” She pulled her testing kit out of her purse. “Four drinks should be more than enough to start showing some side-effects. Let me take a quick blood sample.” Before Barry could object, she stabbed a lancet into his finger.

“Ow!” Barry put his finger in his mouth and sucked on it.

“Everything okay there?”

They all turned. A blond man in a grey t-shirt stood a short distance away, looking at them in concern.

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m good. Just hurt my finger.” He held it up ruefully.

Blondie moved closer. “Well it’s your lucky night: I’m a nurse. Why don’t you let me take a look?”

Cisco plastered on a smile. “That’s real nice of you, but our friend here is actually a doctor, so –”

Barry held out his hand, overriding Cisco’s objections. Blondie took it and examined it, tracing his palm with the tip of his finger. Cisco rolled his eyes hard and took another swallow of his drink.

“I was just watching you out on the dancefloor,” Blondie said. “Those were some impressive moves.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Barry said modestly.

“No, it was definitely something. If I busted out a routine like that I’d be laid up for a week. What’s your secret?”

“Funny you should say that, cos…” Barry leaned in and said impishly, “I’m actually the Flash.”

Cisco choked on his drink. It went straight up his nose; his sinuses were on fire. He coughed hard, eyes watering.

“Are you okay, man?” the stranger asked concernedly.

“Great,” Cisco managed.

Satisfied, Blondie’s attention returned to Barry. “Well, I think your finger’s okay.” His thumb pressed against the inside of Barry’s wrist and his forehead creased slightly. “Your pulse is pretty fast, though.”

“Is it?” Barry said, resting his chin on his hand. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Caitlin rolled her eyes.

Blondie released him, but he showed no signs of leaving. He looked Barry appraisingly up and down. “So you’re the Flash, huh?”

“Yep,” Barry said. His eyes twinkled. “Fastest man alive.”

“Mm. Maybe we’ll have to test that.”

At this point, Cisco decided, enough was enough. He slapped Barry on the back hard enough to make him stagger and complain, “Ow!”

“Ha!” he said. “This guy. He’s a kidder, right? A real riot. Hey, uh, Barry, can I talk to you for a second?”

Before Barry could object, Cisco had grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him out of the main bar area into the corridor, where there was a line of people waiting for the bathroom. Out here it was cooler and while he could still feel the throb of the music through the sticky soles of his sneakers, at least he could hear himself think.

“Dude,” he said. “Seriously? What the hell?”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a little harmless flirting. Iris and I, we have an agreement–”

“I’m not talking about the flirting! You can’t just –” Cisco stopped and made himself take a very deep breath before he lowered his voice. “You can’t just tell people you’re the freaking Flash!”

Barry gave a slow, confused blink. “But I am the Flash.”

He didn’t say it quietly. Several heads turned their way.

Cisco gave an uncomfortable laugh and rolled his eyes, before darting them at Barry like, ‘this guy, am I right?’ After a moment, the bystanders lost interest and went back to their conversation, and Cisco lowered his voice. “I know that, Barry, but it’s a secret, remember?”

“A secret?” Barry’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands over his mouth. “Oh! Right, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“You know what? It’s all good. Just a little misunderstanding. But uh, let’s keep that one under wraps from now on, okay? Lips…” He mimed zipping up his mouth.

Barry nodded dutifully. “Got it.”

“Okay.” Cisco exhaled heavily. Jesus. Babysitting a drunken speedster was hard work.

Barry patted him on the shoulder. “M’gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be back in…” He held up two fingers. “Two seconds.”

“You’d better be. And remember –” He made the zipping motion again.

Barry imitated it, pretending to lock his mouth up and tossed away the imaginary key. Then he went to join the queue.

Feeling like he’d just aged a decade, Cisco made his way back to their booth. Mercifully, Blondie had gone to chat up some twink at the bar. Cisco sank back onto his stool and buried his head in his hands.

Caitlin, who was squeezing a few droplets of Barry’s blood onto a testing strip, made a sympathetic sound. “Not having a good time, huh?”

“I’d be having a great time if Black Canary over there could quit singing about his secret identity for five freaking minutes.” Cisco snatched the silver flask off the table and screwed the cap back on with a sharp twist. “We’re cutting him off right now, before we get into any more trouble.”

“Oh, come on, cut him a little slack. He doesn’t exactly get to let loose very often.”

“There’s letting loose and then there’s whatever the hell this is.” Cisco shook his head. “It’s like –”

A high-pitched shriek cut him off, and Cisco grimaced as it rang throughout the room. Everyone turned to the source of the commotion – and Cisco’s heart sank. Barry stood on the stage, fumbling with the microphone stand.

“Is this thing on?”

“Oh God,” said Caitlin.

Cisco launched himself at the stage, fighting through the crowd. As he did, Barry continued to ramble into the mic.

“Hi. My name’s Barry, Barry Allen, and I just wanted to say something real quick. Because I love this city. It’s like… my favourite city. And I love all of you. Especially you.” He pointed unsteadily at someone in the crowd and gave a clumsy wink. “Anyway, I’m gonna tell you a secret while I’m here. You guys can keep a secret, right? Shhh!” He put his fingers on his lips. “See, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but…” He leaned in so close that his lips brushed against the mic. “I’m the Fla –”

Just in time, Cisco jerked the mic away from him. “Flaaa–ha! Okay, that’s quite enough of that. I think my buddy here needs some air.  Come on, Barry, let’s go.”

Luckily, Barry didn’t resist. He whooshed cheerfully as Cisco shunted him back to their booth and into his seat, then lolled sideways against Caitlin, who – with reflexes well-honed from constantly grabbing flying paperwork – managed to save her testing kit from being swept off the table.

Barry giggled. “I’m fast,” he said.

“Okay,” Cisco said resignedly. He turned to Caitlin. “Got any better ideas?”

She shrugged. “Pray that six-drink Barry is a little more tight-lipped?”

It sounded like a terrible idea. But when had that ever stopped them? With a shake of his head, Cisco withdrew the flask from his pocket.

“Hold on.” Caitlin’s voice had dropped an octave, and silver began to creep down from the roots of her hair. “I wanna see this,” said Frost. “It’s gonna be a total shitshow.”

Unfortunately, Cisco suspected she was right. He splashed more alcohol into Barry’s glass. “Here you go, big guy. Drink up.”

Barry looked down at his drink and frowned. “Can I get ice in this?”

Frost passed her hand over the glass and a chunk of ice dropped to the bottom with a clink.

“Awesome,” Barry said, and downed it.

“Oh God,” said Cisco. “We are so gonna regret this.”

 *

“Okay,” said Kamilla, looking up from the binder. “I think I’m kinda starting to see the problem. But we won’t have that issue tonight. Everyone at this party knows Barry’s the Flash.”

“Listen,” said Cisco. “Four-drink Flash is a cake-walk. The worst is yet to come.” He flipped the page. “Let me introduce you to five-drink Flash.”

*

 5 DRINK BARRY: THERAPIST BARRY

Five-drink Barry got a little too invested in Iris’ Intro to Psychology textbook in college. He’s all heart, zero clinical training.

Leonard Snart lay back on his bunk in Iron Heights, one leg resting lazily over the other, flipping through a nudie magazine. At least, that was how it appeared from outside the cell. Tucked between the pages was a blueprint of the prison, which his sister had smuggled in during her last visit. The bed creaked as he shifted his weight.

One of the guards struck the bars with his baton. Len glanced up.

“Snart. Get your ass out here. We’ve got a phone call for you.”

“Who from?” Lisa didn’t usually call so soon after a visit, and Mick never called at all; the signal on the Waverider was terrible.

“What do you think I am, your PA? Just get your ass out here.”

Interest well and truly piqued, Len tossed his magazine aside, careful to make sure the blueprint stayed safely tucked between his pages as he crossed the cell and waited for the door to be unlocked. Given his status as a high security prisoner, the guard cuffed him before leading him to the payphone booth in the reception area, the walls marked with grease stains and graffiti. With some difficulty, Len picked up the phone.

“Hello, this is Leonard Snart speaking. How may I be of service?”

The quality of the call wasn’t great. He could hear the throb of music, people talking and shrieking and laughing in the background.

Then a familiar voice said, “Snart? Is that you?”

Len’s forehead creased. “Barry?”

“Shmart. Snart.” Barry cleared his throat. “Hi. Are you okay?”

“…Peachy.” Len flicked a glance over his shoulder. The two prison guards stood watching him with folded arms and distinctly unimpressed expressions. “Can I ask if this is a business or a personal call? Because this isn’t exactly a secure line.”

“I just –” A loud, deep burp echoed down the line. “Wanted to check in n’ make sure you’re doin’ okay.”

“What?”

“Because I wanted you to know,” Barry said, his voice thick and indistinct, “that it’s okay not to be okay, you know? You shouldn’t bottle up your emotions. You gotta let ‘em out, you know? After everything you’ve been through with Lewis, I just wanted you to know that if you ever needed to talk…” He choked up, before recovering. “I’ll be here.”

“Barry, are you drunk?” Len said incredulously.

“See, there you go again, changing the subject. Have you ever noticed that you often use de… def… deflection as a way to avoid talking about difficult subjects?”

“I’m hanging up now,” said Len.

“No, no, no, no, wait! Wait!” Barry said urgently. “You need to talk about what bothers you. Don’t just bottle it up. Your emotions are a beautiful thing. Emotions are what make us–”

“Barry?” came another muffled voice on the other end of the line. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” Barry said immediately.

“Barry, give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Just give me the god damn –”

The sound of static and scuffles crackled down the line, and Len grimaced, lifting his head as far away from the speaker as he could to keep from being deafened. Over the commotion and the continued music blasting in the background, he could hear Barry shouting.

“You can be anything you want to be! Your past does not define you!”

“Okay,” said Len, and went to put the phone down.

“Wait!” said Barry. “Before you go, do you have a number for King Shark? Because I wanted to check in and make sure he’s doing okay. I know he looks scary, but underneath that slimy exterior he has the heart of a –”

Len rolled his eyes and hung up.

*

Sober Barry was a seasoned fighter, with speed, agility and hard-won experience on his side. Fortunately for Cisco, however, Drunk Barry’s combat skills comprised of slapping and some half-hearted attempts to bite, which meant that he was able to wrestle the phone away from him fairly easily. As he hung up, he glanced at the caller ID and blanched.

“Seriously? You’re making phone calls to Iron Heights? Are you gonna tell all the bad guys your secret identity too?” He held Barry’s phone up. “You know what? I’m keeping this; you clearly can’t be trusted.”

“My phone!” Barry said, and made a pathetic grab for it.

“Nope. Not happening, pal.” Cisco tucked it into his back pocket.

Barry pouted.

“Hey, don’t give me that look. I’m going to give it back later, I promise. I just need you to sober up first.”

“Okay,” Barry said sorrowfully. His bottom lip started to tremble.

“Oh, no,” Cisco said. “Not the lip – oh God, Barr, you’re breaking my heart here.”

“What’s happening?” asked Frost, returning to the table with two more beers, frost creeping down the side of the bottles. She gave a disinterested look at Barry, who was staring at the table with tears brimming in his eyes. He sniffed hard.

“Uh-oh,” said Cisco. “Six-drink Barry must be…”

 SIX-DRINK BARRY: SAD BARRY

Shortly after his fifth drink, Barry loses his well-honed ability to repress and crumbles under the weight of well over a decade of trauma. In times of crisis, he can be medicated with chicken wings or, in a pinch, large servings of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

 Cisco turned to Frost for help, but she inched away, rapidly shaking her head. Great, thought Cisco. Super helpful. He rubbed Barry’s back tentatively.

“Hey, Barry. You doing okay there, bud?”

Barry looked up. “I just got off the phone with Snart. He’s having a really hard time, you know? I mean, some people just can’t catch a break. He had a crappy abusive drunk for a father; he practically raised his sister. In and out of juvie, never graduated high school – and in spite of all of that, he comes up with these brilliant heists – like seriously impressive – and then the Flash comes in and totally ruins every single one of them. I mean, come on. The guy’s gotta make a living somehow, am I right?”

“Uh,” said Cisco.

“I always said to him, you can do better.” He poked Cisco clumsily in the chest to emphasize each word. “You have what it takes to be a hero. So the guy joins the Legends, becomes a hero, and then he freaking dies in an explosion. Kaboom! And then he comes back, returns to Central City to start over, robs one lousy bank and gets thrown straight back in prison. How is that fair?”

“Jail time seems like a fairly reasonable consequence for grand larceny,” said Frost.

“It’s just a bad habit,” Barry said forlornly. “He deserves help and compassion, not a prison cell. Do you know what it’s like in Iron Heights? The food is terrible. My Dad spend a decade in there and he always said…”

He trailed off. For a moment Cisco thought he’d gone into a trance, as he stared down at the table, forehead slightly creased. Then he saw the haunted look in Barry’s eyes. The face of a man who had seen terrible things.

They needed a distraction. Luckily, Cisco had just the thing. “You know what?” he said. “Maybe the food in prison isn’t great, but you know what’s awesome? The food you can get delivered right here. Nice, starchy, alcohol-absorbing food. Let’s look at a take-out menu and see what we’ve got.” He pulled up JustEat on his phone. “We could get you a pizza… maybe some fries… a couple of burgers; that sounds–”

“Chicken wings,” Barry said distantly.

They both turned to look at him.

“Chicken wings?” said Frost sceptically.

“Chicken wings,” Barry insisted.

“Okay!” said Cisco. “We’ll get chicken wings.” He added one portion to the basket. Then took another look at Barry’s face and hit the plus button several times. “Lots… and lots… of chicken wings.” He locked the phone. “Okay, food should be with us in a couple of minutes. So what now?”

“More drinks!” Barry said.

“No! No more –”

It was too late; there was a crackle of lightning and then the flask slammed back down onto the tabletop.

Cisco closed his eyes in defeat.

 8 Drink Barry is a Michelin-star chef

Sober Barry’s cooking is average at best, but 8 drink Barry reveals a deep inner passion for the culinary arts.

It was a little past two am when a breach opened at the top of the stairwell, pulsing and flickering with pale blue light. Frost and Cisco staggered out of it, each holding one of Barry’s arms to keep him from escaping.

“Okay, almost there,” said Cisco. “You’re doing a great job. Can you let us in?”

Barry patted himself clumsily down until he found his keys and tried to open the first lock. He kept missing the keyhole. After his third attempt, Barry sighed and collapsed forwards, head resting against the wood panelling. Then he started vibrating.

Cisco suddenly realised what he was trying to do. “No, no wait, don’t–”

There was a buzzing sensation, a sickening lurch, and then all three of them fell straight through the front door.

Frost gave a full-body shudder and released her hold on Barry’s shirt to rub her arms.

“Never do that again! It makes my skin crawl.”

“I feel like we should have a rule about phasing under the influence,” Cisco muttered.

Together, they managed to get Barry onto the couch, where he lay blinking up at them, floppy as a rag doll, barbecue sauce smeared down his chin. More of the wings had ended up on his face than in his mouth, but Cisco hoped the restorative properties would kick in soon.

“Hey, Sad Flash. How’re you holding up?”

“I’m hungry,” Barry said. He clawed his way to a standing position. “Gonna make food.” Yellow light blazed as he sprinted into the kitchen.

Frost turned to Cisco. “He’s still hungry? He had like, eight servings of chicken wings!”

“Just go with it,” Cisco muttered, and then the alarming sounds of crashes and bangs came from the kitchen. “Barry? Do you need some help in there?”

Lightning crackled erratically as Barry sped around the room. Within seconds, every available surface was strewn with culinary equipment: a chopping board; a stained knife; various ingredients. A knife flashed as he rapidly diced an onion and swept it into the pan too fast for the eye to follow, and then the burner came on with a click and a whoosh. Oil sizzled as Barry dropped a steak into the pan. He grabbed a wine bottle off the side, yanked the cork out with his teeth and spat it across the room; it missed Frost by inches, and she recoiled in disgust. Barry sniffed the wine, and after a moment of consideration, he sloshed a generous amount into the pan. Flames leapt skyward, and Barry expertly tamped them down.

“Uh… what are you doing?” said Cisco.

Barry flipped the steak with a flick of his wrist. “Cooking.”

“Yeah, I can see that, but I thought you were going to make pasta, or fries, you know – normal drunk people food, not –” Cisco inhaled. “What even is that?”

“Braised steak in a red wine sauce, with asparagus on the side,” Barry said.

“…Right,” said Cisco. “Sorry I asked.”

*

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Kamilla.

“It isn’t,” said Cisco. “It’s goddamn awesome. The problem with 8-Drink Barry is that hot on his heels is –”

*

9 DRINK BARRY – SLEEPY BARRY.

On the night the particle accelerator exploded, Barry went into a coma and remained unconscious for nine months. During that time, his score on the Glasgow Coma Scale was a 5. Rumour has it that nine-drink Barry scored even lower than that.

 “This is the worst night out I’ve ever been on in my life, and I share a body with Caitlin. Her idea of fun is wearing hideous pyjamas and watching documentaries on Hulu,” Frost hissed.

They stood on the doorstep laden with plastic bags while Cisco searched through the assortment of keys Barry had given him, trying to find the one for the first lock. “Look,” he said, inserting one into the lock with a crunch, “I know it hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing, but hopefully he’ll have got the rest of it out of his system while we were out breaching to every grocery store in the city.”

“Right, because Gordon Ramsay in there had to have…” Frost slid the bottle of wine out of the grocery bag. “Whatever the hell this is. Chateau Belair Mona–whatever. As if a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle is going to taste any different than the fifteen-dollar fifty bottle from the liquor store.” She rolled her eyes. “What the hell is he even going to do with it?”

“To be honest, as long as he doesn’t drink it I could care less what he does with it. Just keep him distracted for long enough to get some more food inside of him and make sure any breakable objects are out of reach before he gets down to the two-drink level.” He shook the keys in frustration. “Jesus, how many keys do they have?”

“I still don’t see why we had to–” Frost paused and narrowed her eyes. She sniffed sharply. “Is something burning?”

They looked down. Thick grey smoke billowed out from underneath the kitchen door.

Seconds later, the door burst off its hinges in a cloud of icy fog.

Inside the loft was total chaos. Barry slumped at the kitchen table, dead to the world, his hand still loosely clasped around the flask of speedster booze. A small puddle of drool on the table shone in the firelight. Behind him, his frying pan lay abandoned on the range, smoking violently while flames leapt towards the ceiling.

The piercing shriek of the smoke alarm tore through the room. Frost blasted the frying pan with a thick stream of ice and cold energy crackled from her palms, barely making a difference in the temperature of the room. Cisco grabbed a damp tea towel off the side and beat at the flames, trying frantically to extinguish the blaze. Behind them, Barry didn’t so much as twitch, his snores drowned out by the alarm.

*

“Okay, I think I get the gist,” said Kamilla, looking up from the folder. “No-booze Barry is the way to go.” She hesitated. “But just out of morbid curiosity, what about nine-drink Barry?”

“Unchartered territory,” Cisco said darkly. “We figured eight drinks was enough.”  He closed the folder conclusively. “So yeah, it sucks that Barry can’t drink with us, but with great power comes great responsibility. And sometimes responsibility means making sure your friend doesn’t accidentally break the sound barrier by doing the worm at Mach 2.”

Cisco went to slide the folder back onto the shelf. As he did so, his gaze caught a framed photo on the countertop. He paused and picked it up, smiling sadly. It was a picture of himself, Caitlin, Barry and Thawne – or Wells, as they’d believed back then – from the early days. They all looked so young, grinning at the camera, hair tousled where Barry had sped out from behind the phone before the shutter clicked. His chest ached.

Kamilla put a hand on his arm. “You’re going to miss them, aren’t you?”

“Always.” He put the photo down. “But we gotta keep moving forward. Speaking of which, it is beyond uncool to be late to your own party, so we’d better get shaking.” He held out his arm. “Ready?”

“You go,” said Kamilla. “I just have a few last-minute things to take care of. I’ll catch up.”

“Okay.” Cisco kissed her on the cheek and slipped out of the room.

Kamilla glanced over her shoulder, bit her lower lip. Then her gaze slid over to the fridge.

Tiptoeing across the room, she approached the container and input the code again. Her hair tossed as she glanced over her shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. Then she slid out a single blood red vial and tucked it into her purse.

Just in case.

#DCTVGenPrideMonth #the flash fanfiction #my fics

[amydancepants-peralta]

hiiii!!! i’m coming to our queen of smut to make a request: i was watching yippee kayak last night and i had this vision of jake going home and ~~~~~”warming” amy up after the polar plunge... i don’t think anyone has written this version of a post 3.10 fic and i just think you would be the best one so if you feel inspired by this i would love to read it!! 💕💕

ok so I really loved this idea and it took me forever but here goes!  rated NSFW for all of you playing at home, and can be found here if it’s easier ♥️

everything comes back to you 

Jake’s eyes squeeze shut as he follows Amy’s descent into his couch below, ignoring the scratchy crumbs of yesterday’s breakfast and sliding his fingers into her hair, deepening the kiss he’d initiated only seconds earlier.  Returning his heated embrace with an equal amount of fervour, Amy's nimble fingers ripple along the buttons of his flannel with the practised ease of someone who’d buttoned it only 15 hours earlier; impatiently shoving the fabric out of the way as it parts, and Jake lets out a sigh of satisfaction when it hits the floor with a soft thud.  

It has been close to two hours since he and Charles had finished their debrief (and taken down Flamethrower Gina - or FlameGrrl, if her new twitter handle was anything to go by); and after finding a quiet Amy waiting for him at their desks, the couple had made a beeline for Jake’s apartment, the unspoken need for some Thank God You’re Alive sex crackling between them on the drive home.  

Amy’s two jackets hadn’t lasted more than three steps inside Jake’s apartment, his own leather  discarded a mere second later; and in their newly horizontal position things were moving along pretty well - save for the minor detail that whenever he closes his eyes, Jake cannot seem to get the image of a confessed murderer pointing his gun directly at him out of his mind.  

None of this evening was playing out the way he’d imagined, kissing Amy goodbye earlier this morning from the comfort of her sofa when she left for an early start.  His first Christmas with a Serious Girlfriend in forever, Jake had put a lot of time and effort into selecting just the right gifts; and his plan for a sneaky early unwrapping of a couple of presents (followed, hopefully, by the unwrapping of Amy) had been waylaid by a most inconvenient - but incredibly dangerous - hostage situation in the middle of a department store.  

It was the stuff that only the best kind of Christmas movies are made of (even if he didn’t get to say the Cool Catchphrase), but now that he was home - now that they were home - Jake was beginning to realise just how close he’d come to losing it all.  

Initiating another kiss, Jake closes his eyes even tighter - tight enough to watch the tiny stars as they float by - and even though the plan to just keep kissing Ames until the bad thoughts go away had seemed solid; he eventually has to come up for air, tucking his head into the juncture of her neck and sighing as the scent of his girlfriend numbs the sharp teeth of unwanted memories.  

Amy’s voice is soft when she speaks, but he’d hear her in a hurricane, and the sound carries over tangled limbs before landing at their un-socked feet.  “I didn’t feel it.”

It’s an odd statement - and definitely not something that one expects to hear during a pre-sex makeout - and it prompts Jake to glance downwards at their still very covered bottom halves, returning to respond with an eloquent - “Huh?”

Her head tips back ever so slightly, just enough for Jake’s eyes to lock onto hers, and the seriousness of her look cuts him to the quick.  “My phone.  I didn’t feel it … the vibrations from your texts.  You know, through the jacket.”  Her fingernails scrape the edge of his hairline, and she shakes her head in frustration.  “So puffy.  I couldn’t feel anything, including the cold, which I guess is the point, but … I didn’t feel it.”

Jake nods, feeling his lips purse up.  There was definitely a point, between texts numbers four and seven, when he’d begun to question if Amy was ever going to answer.  But he’d kept texting, based purely on the way she looked at him that very morning, ruffling his hair when he’d woken up and bidding him goodbye with the kind of kiss that made his heart thump long after she’d gone.  He had hoped there would be a reason why, and the sincerity in her eyes now said it all. 

A coolness remains in the wake of her hands as they shift away, voice growing more determined as she continues.  “But, Jake … I need you to understand something.”  She digs her elbows into the couch for leverage, waiting as Jake scoots backwards to accommodate and shuffling up to a seated position; their makeout session taking a temporary pause.  “As soon as I realised, I came running.”

It’s a sorry without saying it, an apology for taking so long to respond to his barrage of texts, and the automatic response of it’s fine, babe bubbles up Jake’s throat.  There’s still a part of him, the same part that once came to work with multiple injuries and pretended everything was fine, that wanted to brush this whole evening away and act like everything was normal.  It was the Peralta way to compartmentalise and move on, but with his girlfriend of seven months (and partner for so much longer) sitting in front of him, suddenly Jake didn’t want to simply shrug it all away.  

His mouth feels dry, and he knows his voice has gone soft, but he answers before he can’t.  “I was really scared, Ames.  For a moment there, I - ” there are too many options for the end of the sentence, and all the fears jumble out from that corner of his mind he’d been pushing them into all evening.  His stomach twists, and he tries again.  “I really thought ..”

Moving closer still, Amy’s knees knock against Jake’s as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for the kind of comforting hug he’d unknowingly craved.  She whispers I was scared too, the reality of what could have been washing over them for a moment, and Jake realises that this moment right here on the couch was what he’d be needing all evening.

It isn’t until their makeout has begun again - albeit of a slightly softer, reassuring variety - that Amy nestles closer to Jake, sliding her hands underneath his shirt; and it’s the almost freezing temperature of her palms that pull him out of his kissing Amy stupor. 

“Whoa!  Ames, your hands really are on a whole other level of cold.”

(Truth be told, the first time he’d noticed, they were still on the sidewalk outside Goodwin’s; kissing way more than he thought they would with their colleagues and superior officers all within viewing distance.  But he’d been a little distracted at the time, too caught up in the temporary high that came with the realisation that not only had he just lived through his very own Die Hard hostage experience - he, too, had a beautiful woman outside who was so glad he was okay, and honestly, those two things packed together really did make for a stellar - if short lived - moment of bliss.)

Pulling away, Amy inspects her palms as though checking for icicles before looking back at Jake.  “I’m telling you babe, I really might have hypothermia.”

“Wait … you actually did the polar bear swim?”

“Ugh.”  Resting back on her heels, Amy rolls her eyes in exasperation.  “Not exactly, no.  I tried!  But … I just couldn’t go through with it.  Holt and Rosa went in while I stayed on the beach like a chicken.”  Shrugging her shoulders, she continues.  “It wasn’t until I read all your messages and realised what was happening that …” 

The cogs slowly begin to turn in Jake’s brain.  “You had to …?”

“I ran into the ocean to get them.”

He blinks.  “You.  Amy Santiago; perpetual blanket stealer, and the only person who could land on the sun and still find it a little chilly, ran into the freezing Atlantic?”

She nods, her eyes wide and somber, and Jake’s heart squeezes in his chest.  “I can’t believe you did that.”

Her hands move to either side of his face, the contrast in temperatures suddenly feeling like nothing at all; freshly armed with the knowledge that the woman in front of him had run into the very thing she hated, just for him.  “I told you, Jake.  As soon as I knew.”  She leans in to press her lips against his, and Jake runs his hands along her wrists, giving Amy a contented smile when she pulls away.  “Bonus points to you for knowing it’s the Atlantic, by the way.” 

There are a thousand different responses running through Jake’s mind, all of them showing varying degrees of being the right answer for right now, but in the end the only thing that he manages to sputter out is a simple - “You’re amazing.”  

(Short, yet most definitely true.)

“You were in danger, babe.  Nothing else matters when it comes to that.”

A scarily familiar lump forms in Jake’s throat; the same one that had choked his voice up right before he’d confessed his feelings to his college girlfriend Camille - aka, the girl who broke up with him only a day later - and his stomach begins to twist incessantly.  

Amy had dropped everything to find him - he, Jake Peralta, a man who’s clean washing pile sits dangerously close to his dirty washing pile (i.e. both on the floor), who’s teeth hold more cavities than a third grader hopped up on pixie sticks, who’s punching well above his weight every single time he gets to hold her in his arms.  This intelligent, beautiful, courageous woman considered his safety to be more important than anything else, and the words I love you I love you I love you were growing dangerously close to his spilling out of his mouth.  

It wasn’t a new thing, to know that he loved her.  He practically vibrated it out of every pore of his body.  (Had a dream once, that he’d painted it on a billboard over the expressway.)  But it was one thing to know it - to know only a few days in that the two of them together was greater than anything he’d ever been a part of - and another thing altogether to actually say it out loud.  He’s been here before, and knows all too well how much it hurts when it goes unreciprocated (the danger, he knows, of wearing your heart on your sleeve: but there, it shall remain).  Rejection and heartache are not a new experience for Jake by a long shot - but just the thought of it coming from Amy was too frightening to contemplate.  

The urge to escape the seriousness, the voice inside his head screaming deflect! deflect! overpowers the rest of Jake (it’s strength in it’s familiarity), and he leans in to capture Amy’s lips in a kiss far more passionate than any they’d shared this evening.  Sighing against her mouth as she melts into his embrace, he uses the space between them as they part to mumble,  “I think it’s about time I warmed you up then, hmm?”

“Thought you’d never offer,”  Amy grins, that sly upturning of her lips that always seems to have a direct line to his penis; and Jake runs his hands along her back, holding her close to his chest as he lifts them both from the couch and deposits them onto his poorly made bed.  

She slips off his undershirt before another moment is wasted, getting to work on the fly of his jeans immediately while Jake leans in for another heated kiss, picking up on her sudden need for more action.  His hips flex against Amy’s familiar touch as her hand slides underneath, nudging the zipper of his jeans open with her palm and nursing his growing erection, his responding groan mixing amongst their tangling tongues.  

Wrapping one arm around her back, Jake feels the cool bare skin beneath Amy’s shirt, splaying his fingers out as he pulls her closer.  The blades of her shoulder graze against his fingertips as her hand tightens her grip around his cock, covering his length in the steady strokes that she knows turn him on, and truly - how she manages to make him feel this good every. single. time. has to be some kind of magic.  

His brow furrows slightly as his hands wander to the edge of her waist, noticing what feels like an unusual texture there - but, also aware that he may not be in the most ‘sound mind and body’ state as long as Amy keeps pumping her wrist like that, Jake persists with his path of kisses along his girlfriend’s clavicle.  It isn’t until his fingers return to her front, gripping the bottom of her shirt and sliding it upwards that he feels it again, and this time he pulls away from the love bite he had been nibbling into her neck.  “Wait.  Ames, is that …?”

Shifting his weight onto one side Jake lifts Amy’s shirt a little higher, letting out a halted laugh as a darker lycra fabric begins to appear.  “Are you wearing a bathing suit?”

“Oh God!” Amy’s hands brush past Jake’s bare chest, flying up to cover her face as she lets out a groan, his cock already mourning her departure.  “I kept thinking on the drive over that I needed to get changed before we got too distracted.  But then you kissed me in the hallway, and it all just …” shaking her head, she separates her fingers and peeks out at Jake through the gaps.  “I’m still in Polar Plunge mode.  Ugh, this is probably the least sexiest - ” her protest dies in it’s tracks, courtesy of the gentle pressing of Jake’s fingers against her lips.  

“Babe, no.  You’re sexy all the time, it’s actually insane.  You’d look sexy in a hessian sack, trust me.”  He replaces his fingers with his lips as her hands fall away, pressing just that little bit harder before pulling away to catch her line of sight.  “It just caught me by surprise, is all.”

She grins.  “Like your girlfriend had turned into a seal?”

“A sexy seal,” he nods.  “Hottest in all of New York.”

Her chest rumbles underneath him as she laughs - a loud, carefree laugh, easily one of his most favourite sounds - and Jake joins in, pressing one knee into the mattress as he rises slightly to slide Amy’s shirt away.  She looks up at him with the brightest of eyes as their giggles begin to fade and Jake digs his teeth into his lower lip, the urge to tell her just how much he loves her almost too strong to ignore.

(He considers it for a moment, telling her in this apartment that was always an okay place to sleep but now with Amy feels like a home … but he’s watched enough romantic movies in his time to know that pre or post sex first-time declarations rarely held value - and if there’s anybody that deserves better than that, it’s Amy Santiago.)

Instead, Jake takes his time peeling away her swimwear, pausing to kiss each of Amy’s breasts as the fabric rolls to her midriff, shuffling down the mattress as her hips lift to allow both her pants and the suit to slide away and join his on the floor.  Her legs slide against the sheets with a subtle impatience, a quiet sigh falling from her lips as she feels Jake’s hands skim along the outside of her thighs, and he takes his time forging a trail of kisses before reaching her centre.  

He begins with a special kind of kiss, sucking gently on her clit with every press of his lips, following it up with a rogue lick every second or third go as Amy’s fingers dig into his hair.  They tug as he dips lower, circling her entrance with the tip of his tongue, yanking in reprimand when he presses in then pulls away, all far too quickly for her liking. 

Amy’s skin feels perfect; so comfortably bare against his own as Jake makes his way back up her body, keeping one hand wrapped around her thigh as he leans in for another kiss, waiting until her lips are well and truly occupied before sliding one - then, two - fingers inside where she’s wanting him the most.  She writhes beneath him as he slowly works her up, stoking the flame just enough to push her closer to combustion, feeling the moisture build as her arousal grows with every kiss.    

Letting out a shuddered breath, Amy raises her hips to meet Jake’s touch, her yearning obvious - pushing his fingers away and using her free hand to wrap her fingers around his erection, enticing him closer as she twists her wrist with practised ease.  Ever willing to follow her lead, Jake shifts until the head of his cock is pressing against her centre, holding onto Amy’s gaze and entering slowly with one smooth stroke.  

She sighs in satisfaction as he pushes further in, blinking slowly as their pelvises push up against each other, and for a moment Jake pauses, too caught up in the moment to do anything other than stare.  Amy truly was everything he could have ever dreamed of - and by some amazing twist of fate, she’d chosen him over any other.  

He thinks of the heart-shaped necklace he bought for her, the same one that sits underneath the glittering tree in her living room, and how he knew it belonged on her from the moment he saw it in the store window.  How he’d debated on when to give it to her, knowing the connotation that came from an item of that shape, and how right it had felt to tuck it in with the other presents this morning before he’d left for work.  

Because it was true - she could have his heart, in whatever form it came, and wear it around her neck for all the world to see (even if it does sound slightly Game of Thrones-ish).  Jake Peralta was totally, completely, and unequivocally in love with Amy Santiago.  And even if, right now, he is totally, completely and unequivocally terrified of saying it out loud, he needed her to know just how much a life without her seemed impossible.  

He pulls out halfway, dipping his hip slightly as he thrusts back in, holding himself still as her walls pulse around him.  Somewhere along the way, tonight had become less about having sex because it’s been A Day and he has a sexy girlfriend, and more about making love with the woman he’s beyond afraid to lose - and it felt kind of perfect.  “You should know …” Jake swallows nervously, his mouth suddenly dry.  “I need you to know, Ames.  When he pointed the gun at me, there was only one thought running through my mind … and it was that I might not ever see you again.”

Smiling softly, Amy reaches out to rest a palm against Jake’s cheek, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb as her body shifts beneath him.  Meeting him halfway for a kiss, her hair splays out on the pillow below as she rests back down, looking up at Jake with a thousand unspoken words lingering between them.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jake.  I can’t imagine ..”  Shaking her head, she pulls him back down for another kiss, tightening her legs around his waist and lifting her pelvis to meet Jake’s thrusts as they begin to move together.  

It’s safe to say that he and Amy have had a lot of sex since becoming Jake and Amy, and each time has been incredible - but there was something about tonight, and the way their bodies just slotted into each other like they’d finally found that perfect match, that made all of the nerves in Jake’s body push into Oh My God mode.  Between the kisses, the wandering hands, and the mingling sighs and moans; it doesn’t take long before his thrusts have sped up, temporarily lost in anything other than focusing on how amazing it feels to be inside Amy while her fingernails dig into his butt.  

She whispers his name, a warm breath against his shoulder as his face tucks into her neck, her legs beginning to shake as her orgasm climbs ever closer.  But Jake wants to show Amy, even if he can’t quite say it yet, just how in love he is - how far he would go for her, how every part of who he is now comes back to being loved by her - and when her hands slide up to the edge of his shoulders in a definite sign that she was moving closer to climax, he slows his thrusts down, desperate to savour the moment.  

He watches as Amy’s brow crinkles in protest, pushing her hips hard against his as her impending orgasm begins to slip away - but he knows that a little edging has never been unwelcome, and so he slows down a little more.  Still, her fingernails sting against his skin as she lets a huff, instigating a steady rhythm for them as Jake hovers above, and he leans down to take the edge off by scraping his teeth along the edge of her neck just the way she likes.  

He slips out of her a moment later, grinning at the groan of protest that falls unbidden from Amy’s mouth and leans in to plant a kiss against her lips before whispering ‘gotta keep you nice and warm, babe.’  Her neck cranes towards his as he pulls away, chasing more, and it’s a request Jake’s never going to deny so he returns to kiss her deeper, letting their tongues slide against each other for a little while as his hands wander further down.

Jake grips his own erection with a steady fist, rotating once or twice - just enough to keep him teetering on the edge - before sliding down the mattress, dotting kisses against Amy’s torso as he makes his intended path clear.  

Her thighs feel smooth against Jake’s palms as he traces the curves of her legs, gently nudging one leg higher until it’s resting against his shoulder.  Completely unable to resist, he sinks his teeth into her inner thigh, suckling just enough to know there’ll be a mark there tomorrow, soothing the ache with gentle kisses as Amy moans softly above him.  The press of her hand against the back of his head silently encourages Jake to move closer to where she wants him, and after digging his fingers into her hips he is only too happy to oblige.  

He takes a slow lick, pushing his tongue against her folds and sighing at the taste of them, the mixture of Amy and a little bit of his own pre-cum.  (The switch from condoms to an implanted birth control was recent, and - dare he say - glorious.)  He pushes forward for another sample, bending slightly so that the bridge of his nose presses against her clit, darting his tongue in and out of her centre as she writhes underneath his touch.  

The feeling of her fingers digging into his hair, and the tightening of her upper thighs against his neck, was the stuff that any great sexual fantasy could ever be constructed of - made all the better by that sweet moment of realisation that this was his life now.  He could do this to Amy now, and not be rudely interrupted by an alarm clock pulling him out of a dream.  He could feel her this way, know her body better than she knew it herself, and Jake didn’t need to escape a hostage situation on Christmas Eve to know that he truly is the luckiest man alive.  

Using his thumb to circle her clit, Jake increases the intensity of his movements as Amy thrashes underneath his touch, pushing her lower body off the mattress as it all become too much.  She calls out a mixture of Jake and babe to his apartment ceiling, too overcome with the way her body was riding the wave of pleasure to care about volume, and Jake stays in position, taking all she has to offer as slowly her grip around his body loosens.  

Panting in the comedown, it takes a moment or two before Amy can move properly, bending her elbows to raise herself up slightly and watch as Jake continues his gentle assault on her body.  “Holy fuck, Jake - that was ..”  her voice fades away, raising a hand and then dropping it just as quickly, flopping back down with a satisfied sigh.  He grins, taking one final lick before casting a tender bite just to the right of her mound, leaving the evidence of her arousal against her skin as he nuzzles into the curve of her hip.    

Grabbing an abandoned pillow, Jake rises and places it perpendicular to Amy’s pelvis; hovering over her still slightly shaking body and gently encouraging her to roll over, positioning the pillow until it lifts her hips in just the right way.  He covers her back with his own body as his cock slides back into home, the change in angles eliciting a moan from both of their mouths, and Jake’s teeth sink gently into Amy’s shoulder blade as he begins to pump his hips in perfectly fluid strokes.  

Amy’s left hand flails out to the mattress, perfectly manicured fingernails gripping onto Jake’s sheets as the two of them begin to move in sync - both of them immediately getting lost in the moment, in this position that was so much better than doggy style - because this way they could feel each other completely, could feel the nerves quivering underneath their skin as they raced closer towards the finish line.  

The feeling of Amy climaxing around his tongue only minutes before had made Jake’s cock harder than ever, and the sensation of her warm body surrounding him now was pushing him closer to losing it completely.  He mouths I love you in-between kisses and licks against her sweaty skin, reaching out to link their fingers together as he pushes harder, sliding his left hand between the pillow and thrumming a delicate pattern against Amy’s sensitive clit.  

“You feel so good Ames, oh god I’m going to come soon … you’re so amazing.”  His forehead presses between the middle of her shoulder blades, leaving the I want this forever part of his sentence unspoken as he lets out a stuttered moan. 

Her legs stretch wider apart, searching for that perfect angle as she moans a stretched out yesss, and Jake really increases his pace when she pauses, pushing her abdomen into the pillow and meeting every thrust with a series of gasping breaths.  

His name falls out of Amy’s mouth in a series of broken syllables as she climaxes, her entire body writhing and coaxing Jake’s own completion out of him as he buries his head into Amy’s neck and lets go completely, spilling inside her with an intensity he hasn’t felt in the longest time.  

Wrapping his arms around Amy’s middle as their heavy breaths begin to slow down, Jake pulls out, twisting to curl his body around Amy’s and nuzzle into her side.  Her still slightly shaking hand reaches back, caressing the base of his neck and humming in contentment, stretching her legs out against Jake’s as she moves.  “Well, Peralta .. I’d say you definitely warmed me up.”

He grins against her skin, peppering kisses along her upper arm as he speaks.  “You think it was worth running into the freezing water for?”

Amy’s hand falls away as she shuffles in his arms, twisting carefully within his embrace until they’re facing each other, pushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead as she nods.  “You’re worth doing anything for, Jake.”  Her palm, now entirely warm, caresses his cheek as she pulls him in for a kiss, leaving another against the tip of his nose as they part.  “You’re everything.  I hope you know that.”

Jake nods, a noice dying in his throat as he chooses to respond with another kiss before he can ruin the moment.  One day, some day soon, he would find a way to tell Amy how he felt about her - but for now, he needed to be here with the woman he loves, and feel her soft body in his arms as the exhaustion of the day finally begins to catch up with them.  

It’s completely domestic and entirely perfect how they ready themselves for bed; Amy sliding on a pair of Jake’s boxers as she returns from the bathroom, slipping underneath the covers and gravitating towards his warmth without hesitation.  There are whispered goodnights and gentle kisses, arms and legs intertwining as though they were always supposed to be, and a smile that refuses to leave Jake’s face as he begins to drift off to sleep.  

Let the movies have their action-packed explosions and damsels in distress - his reality kicked it’s butt, any day of the week.  There’s an incredibly intelligent, stupidly beautiful woman laying beside him - one that cares for him, worries about his safety, and occupies a little more of his heart with every passing day.  And truly, that’s greater than anything that any blockbuster could possibly bring to the table.

(Although, if he ever needed to, he would totally jump off the roof of a building.  But only to save the day, and clearly only for Amy.)  

(Okay, maybe a little for him as well … but mainly, the Amy thing.)

#some peraltiago smut to celebrate their engagement airing anniversary because thatsa thing right? #anyways I hope you like this! #my writing #peraltiago smut #living vicariously through them? its more likely than you think #smut and fluff #b99 fic #b99 fanfic

[important-metaphors]

With the last season of the 100 finally ending this summer, I feel like a personal tribute to the 100/Bellarke has been long overdue. On top of that, I have reached 100 followers on AO3 (!!!) in the past few months and, even though I hadn't gotten the chance to do it properly before, I would now like to thank each and every one of you for sharing my work and sticking around!!! You guys are wonderful and deserve the world! Every like/kudos and reblog has brightened my day 💕

The ultimate goal of this celebration is a six-part one-shot, where each part will be a tribute to some of my favorite storylines of the 100 (and to Bellarke, of course). I’ve been meaning to do this for a long, long time, so now that I finally got the chance to sit down and make a proper outline, I’d love to have everyone’s input and toss ideas around with you! That means you can prompt me anytime until the post is un-pinned, with anything that comes to mind and you think fits.

A couple of things you might need to know before you send me an ask:

who can participate: Anyone! If you’re following me, that’s awesome!! If not, then you can still message me anytime, even anonymously. I will reply to anonymous as well as non-anonymous prompts the same way, unless you specify that you’d like a private response.

what form should the ask have: Any form. Your prompt could concern one of the six storylines specifically (see below) or any of them. In order to make this more interactive and fun, I encourage you to share anything you might have read or seen lately or that has stayed with you for any reason. It could be a song, a poem, a quote, a genre, a popular trope etc. If you’re an artist, feel free to share your own work!

which pairings can the prompt include: Unfortunately, I’m currently planning for all six parts to be short (2k-3k words), so there’s not much room for pairings other than Bellarke (Bellamy x Clarke). I can, however, probably include other characters (eg Emori) to have a minor/some role in one of the stories.

how many prompts per person: Multiple. There’s no limit.

other requirements: No need to like or reblog this post for you to participate, but signal boosting is very welcome!

The storylines I will be exploring are the following:

(1) Ark AU. The malfunction in the oxygen system never happens. Clarke is training as a doctor and is briefly set responsible for the weekly check-ups of members of the Guard. Bellamy is in the Guard and still has an extra mouth to feed, the consequences of which don't go unnoticed.

(2) Mount Weather AU. Bellamy and Clarke grow up together, in a place where they struggle with what's right and what's not.

(3) Sangedakru (Desert Clan) AU. (+A.L.I.E.) Link to the initial prompt and the gorgeous moodboard made by @goddess-clarke.

(4) Azgeda (Ice Nation) AU. Bellamy is the intended Azgeda King and Clarke is Queen Nia’s right hand and spy. With the second Praimfaya looming, they share an understanding and a common goal.

(5) Eligius IV AU. Bellamy and Clarke, former antagonists, are on the ship with the Eligius IV prisoners. After they wake from cryosleep, dynamics change to prevent chaos from ensuing.

(6) Sanctum AU. Clarke, a Sanctumite, goes undercover with a plan to defeat the Children of Gabriel. With Gabriel Santiago gone, Bellamy is their leader and has a plan of his own. 

--

Unless you state otherwise in your message, I will be tagging you once the fic is published. If you have any other questions or suggestions I would love, love to hear them!

Send me a prompt here.

Tagging some mutuals and recent Tumblr followers under the cut to get this going:

@creativecatherine, @pithypotato, @lov3for3va, @captainwilldameron, @small-towngirl22, @clbellarkeontop, @nakey-cats-take-bathsss, @bcllamy, @ruggedmurphy, @theatre-steph, @bookwormforalways, @somoontiger, @adancergirl, @immortalcockroach, @natassakar, @hyperactivelion, @starxdust22, @bellarme-clown, @pawprinterfanfic, @mariavegab1998, @scottmcgivemeacall, @janebenncts, @sparklyfairymira, @goddess-clarke, @eyessharpweaponsshot, @queen-of-the-wallflowers15, @johnmurphysass, @mobi-on-a-mission, @marauders-groupie, @broashwhat, @hellyeahbellarkee, @sassmasterblake, @slyth-princess, @vetpancake, @frostedgemstones22, @shen-gong-oops, @geekyogicheese, @starklys, @choose-wonkru, @blarkechehab, @iishallbelieve, @wolfheartgirl, @iwearplaids.

#the 100 #bellarke #bellarke au #bellarke fanfiction #follower celebration #100 follower celebration #I'm excited to start writing again!

[sambergscott]

i'd wait forever and a day for you

summary: post-trying // jake is on an undercover mission and amy thinks she’s pregnant. 

(you should read this just for the last line tbh)

Her period is late.

At first, she attributes it to stress. Jake is on a major undercover operation and while she is an incredibly proud, supportive wife, she knows how dangerous the situation is. He’s a great cop -- one of New York’s finest, in both senses of the word (...he’s hot) -- and he was so excited about getting this assignment. And she’s excited for him -- really, she is. But with updates filtering through to Captain Holt at a snail’s pace, it’s impossible not to worry about him, where he is, what he’s doing, whether he’s safe. Her cycle was shot to hell when he was in Witness Protection in Florida and it is entirely possible that history is repeating itself. 

Four days pass, Jake is still undercover and her period still has not arrived. She tries to blame Hitchcock’s God-awful Zika cologne disrupting her cycle again until she remembers that both Hitchcock and Scully have been off work all week with food poisoning. She even Googles why is my period late?, quickly closing the tab and deleting her browser history when the first result that pops up is pregnancy. 

There’s no way she’s pregnant. She refuses to even consider it for a second. 

Despite her absolute certainty that her uterus is as empty as it’s always been, when Rosa invites her for drinks with her new boyfriend, Amy opts for a non-alcoholic beer. 

“I’m driving,” she explains at Rosa’s raised eyebrows and swiftly changes the conversation. She finds out that Rosa’s boyfriend is a mechanic and they hit it off when she took her motorbike in for repair. She talks about Jake, about how he’s her favourite person in the entire world and how much she misses him (A Lot). He asks her what it’s like dating a cop and how to deal with the person you love putting themselves in danger every single day, which makes Rosa blush. Amy has never seen her blush before. 

“It’s difficult,” she says truthfully. She hates seeing her husband hurting and being thrown in prison for crimes he didn’t commit and having guns pointed at his head. It’s why she instated the short-lived ‘no dating cops’ rule, before Jake kissed her and she decided screw it. “But it’s worth it. When you really love them, it’s worth the pain. Every second.”

“That’s what I thought,” he responds, looking at Rosa the way Jake looks at Amy. 

She finishes her drink (which is so not as good as its alcoholic counterpart) and gathers her coat and purse. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. See you Monday,” she directs at Rosa and “it was nice to meet you” at her boyfriend, who she has a feeling might be sticking around for a while. 

She opens up her Messages app and types out a full paragraph to Jake about how she met Rosa’s boyfriend before him and how he’s really nice and makes her blush! Rosa Disz!!! Blushing!!! She adds a gif of Jonathan Van Ness saying “can you believe?” and is about to click send when she realises his phone is on his nightstand where he left it before his mission and puts her phone back in her pocket in dismay. 

Once home, she gets changed into one of his NYPD t-shirts and climbs straight into bed, crying herself to sleep. 

She wakes up bright and early the next morning, a feat that is made significantly easier when there is no super cute husband to snuggle with. She showers, pulls on leggings and one of his plaid shirts and gets started on her Sunday Chores. Dancing around the apartment and pretending the mop is a microphone stand is a lot less fun on her own and she overcompensates, making herself dizzy and throwing up in the toilet she just cleaned. 

Without thinking, she finds herself at the bodega on the corner, staring at the selection of pregnancy tests. She grabs three of the safest looking ones and bites her lip when the guy congratulates her as she pays. She’s wasted hundreds of dollars on pregnancy tests thus far and she knows she’s definitely wasting money on these ones too. She doesn’t need congratulating for making poor financial decisions and being bad at making babies, but she thanks him anyway. 

Back at the apartment, she dumps the paper bag on the kitchen counter to deal with later. She makes a cup of tea, calls her mom and fills in The Times crossword. The paper bag screams out to her the entire time. 

Reluctantly, she removes the boxes from the bag, fully intending to put them away in the back of the bathroom cabinet, out of sight. 

A niggling voice tells her to just open one and find out. 

She has the box open and the test in her hand when her phone buzzes with a text from Holt informing her that Jake is safe and the mission is going well. 

She drops the test like it burnt her skin. 

Jake. She can’t do this without him. If she is pregnant, she’d never forgive herself for finding out without him, for stripping him of that moment they’d been dreaming of forever. 

She’s waited this long, she can wait a few more days. And she’s probably not pregnant anyway. 

She ends up waiting two more weeks. 

It’s torture. 

She’s throwing up almost daily, crying in the break room for no apparent reason and her damn period has still not come. All symptoms which could be explained away by a lack of Jake Peralta and stress (due to missing the aforementioned Jake Peralta). 

Rosa corners her in the ladies bathroom and asks if she wants her to run out for more pregnancy tests.

“I already have some at home.”

“And?” She prompts. “Did you take them? Are you pregnant?”

“I don’t know.” She tries to play it off as no big deal, but Rosa knows her pretty well these days. 

“You’ve been trying for nearly a year, there’s a chance you are finally pregnant and you haven’t taken a test?”

“I can’t -- I want to -- Jake --.”

“Oh,” it dawns on her. 

“Yeah,” Amy sighs. “I’ve been staring at the tests every night but I just can’t. Not without him.  He’d be devastated.”

“He would not be devastated if you were pregnant, Amy Santiago.” 

“You know what I mean. He’d want to be have been there. I want him to be there.”

“I guess he needs to hurry the hell up and catch the bad guys then.”

He must have heard her because, hours later, the elevator door opens and there he is, exhausted and still in his weird undercover clothes, with the biggest smile on his face. 

She practically throws herself at him and, yeah, maybe she kisses him in a not-very-work-appropriate way and maybe some of the perps in the holding cell wolf whistle and maybe Charles is crying, but he is home and she can finally take those pregnancy tests. 

Holt allows her to clock out early (she makes a mental note to buy him a glass of Charbonnay the next time they go to Shaw’s) and Jake excitedly tells her all about the case, barely taking a second to breathe.

“Sounds fun, babe,” she says when he gets to the part of the story when he handcuffed the bad guys and then made out with this super hot chick in front of all his co-workers. 

“It was awesome,” he confirms. “What about you? What have you been up to? I missed you so much.”

“Aw,” she smiles, rubbing her hand over his thigh as he drives, “I missed you so much, too. As for what I’ve been up to, I’ve mostly just been kind of sick.”

“Really?”

“Mm-hmm. I... um... actually think I might be pregnant.”

He swerves suddenly, nearly crashing the car. Ignoring the cars around them honking, he focuses on his wife. “Pregnant?”

“My period is nearly three weeks late, I’ve been throwing up and I’ve been extra emotional,” she debriefs him. 

“Right. OK.” He takes a deep breath. “Have you taken a test?”

“I bought three but I couldn’t take them without you. It’s kind of been killing me.”

“Yeah, I bet,” he laughs, pulling over in front of their apartment. Neither of them move. “We should probably take them now.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. 

“You nervous?”

“Yeah,” she says again. She’s lost count of how many negative tests they’ve seen, how many times she’s felt that familiar crushing disappointment. The thought of going through it all over again... 

“I understand. We can wait, if you want. Or we could rip the band-aid off, let the scab bleed all over the place. I’ll hold your hand.”

There’s this reassuring look in his eyes that she’s seen a million times over from back when they were newly-assigned partners and he was reassuring her they would solve a tough case to that time on the roof of 397 Barton Street when he said he always knew she was going to be his boss to his speech at Hitchcock’s (second) divorce party when he told her that they are a family and that they can take whatever ‘next step’ she wants because as long as they’re together, he’s happy. 

Because it’s him, she nods. “Let’s do this.” 

The wait for the timer to go off seems longer than ever. She squeezes his hand so tight she thinks she might cut off the circulation, but he doesn’t complain, just keeps talking about how they’ll be fine, no matter what the result. 

The timer eventually goes off and she picks up the test and starts crying immediately. 

Jake hugs her tight and she can feel him crying too and this is so crazy and insane and good. 

“We’re having a baby,” he says in awe and it’s the best thing Amy’s ever heard. 

“We’re having a baby!” She repeats, half-laughing, half-crying. 

She yelps as he lifts her up and spins her around their tiny bathroom before kissing her tenderly. 

“I can’t believe this,” he exclaims when he pulls away, rubbing his hand over his face, “can you?”

“Nope.” She grins, kissing him again.

#my writing #b99 fic #jake x amy #hope this gives you all the feels it gave me as i was writing it

[foxilayde]

18 👀 with Santi 👀 for the angst 🙏🏽

Yo, okay so I debated about posting this because this got entirely too personal and angsty... like way too fucking angsty, I know these were angst prompts, angst prompts that I WROTE, but damn. I actually don't recommend anyone read this lmao. I'm mostly posting it for my own sake.

the prompt line:

“I’m the broken one? I need to be fixed? Me? And I suppose you’re going to be the one to do that? Fuck off.”

4k of Fucked upped-ness below the cut. Warnings: addiction. angst.

The second you cross Santiago’s threshold you know something is up. The tv isn’t playing the football game, it’s not even on. There’s no array of snacks set up, even the furniture is arranged strangely. Every piece of seating is set up in a tight circle, surrounding the coffee table which holds nothing but a half dozen bottles of water.

“What the—“ you mutter and Fish strides over to you quickly, taking the six pack of dark stout from your hand and heading off to the kitchen with it without a word. Will is standing stalk-still, awkwardly facing you in a half-turn and tight smile. And there’s a middle aged woman sitting on one of the chairs in the circle. You’ve never seen her before, but she has the look of a high school arts teacher, middle aged, sporting a short cropped haircut, donning a flowy scarf and wooden jewelry. She smiles at you warmly. 

“You must be Vin.” She rises to her feet and gestures to the couch. “Have a seat, Vin. My name is Maureen.” 

You take a step backward towards the front door. What the fuck is going on? You scan the room to see if you can glean anything from the guys. Benny is seated on the loveseat, flicking a tri-folded piece of legal paper nervously in his hands. He’s staring at the floor, as is Will; staring at the floor and scratching the back of his neck… who also has a tri-folded yellow legal sheet sticking out of his back pocket. 

You search around for Santi and find him barely peeking out of the shadows of the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His eyes flick to you for a moment before crossing his arms more firmly and clearing his throat as he also stares at the fucking floor. A crumpled and overworn sheet of copy paper clutched in his right fist.

“What the hell is going on?” You wonder aloud, your heart racing. Has someone died? Has Russia declared war on the United States?

Fish dashes back from the kitchen, giving you a tight smile and an equally tight side-hug. His own sheaf of yellow paper, stowed in the breast pocket of his carhart jacket crinkles against you when he does. He rubs your shoulder. 

“C’mon, chica, lets have a seat.”

You dumbly let him guide you to the couch where he takes a seat beside you and offers you a bottle of water. You shake your head and take second stock of the scene from this angle. “Maureen” sits down on the chair closest to you and taps your knee warmly with her hand. 

“Thank you for coming, Vin.” She’s speaking to you like a child and you hate the syrupy slow tone of her voice. Your body flinches away from her touch and you regard her with overt skepticism. 

Will takes a seat beside his brother on the smaller couch, and each of the Millers gives you a tight toothless smile that seems like its intended to be reassuring. Frankie is still stroking your shoulder, arm around you and you look over at Santi, obvious confusion on your face. He takes a deep breath and it seems to take a great effort for him to join the circle, choosing to sit directly across from you on Maureen’s opposite side. 

“Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on? Did something happen?” Your voice sounds more frantic than you intend and for some reason your fight or flight is kicking in, making you breathe too rapidly for your resting position. 

Maureen is the only fucking person in the room who seems somewhat at ease, despite her alien presence to what has always been a well-established dynamic. She ticks her head around the room like a clock, jutting her head out like a chicken at each of the men in the circle. You can’t help but notice Santi’s arms are still folded painfully tight over his dark blue casual button-down, his fist contracting uncomfortably around the paper in his fist as he continues to not meet your gaze. 

“Well, I guess I’ll start.” Maureen says in her best kindergarten-teacher approximation. 

And when she pulls out her clipboard, suddenly you know what’s happening. 

An intervention. 

For you. 

Your heart sinks into your bowels and if it weren’t for Frankie’s arm still around your shoulders you’d leap up and out of this feel-fest before any of these idiots could notice. Frank feels the way you stiffen and scoots closer to you, whispering, “It’s okay.”

“Vin, everyone is here today because they care about you. And they’re worried about you.” Its easy to dismiss Maureen’s statement with derision at her fake saccharine nature. Until you look at the defensive poses of each of your friends in the circle. 

You swallow thickly and your lower lip trembles. “You can’t be fucking serious.” You laugh hollowly, stupidly hoping on a limb that this is one of the guy’s foolish attempts at a joke gone horribly south… But their expressions are too somber and each of them are still so unwilling to meet your eyes… besides Fish who gives you an apologetic reassuring smile, and he nods.

You’re too dumbfounded to say anything. Your mouth twists in an aghast “huh?”-shape and you scoot out of his embrace slightly. 

“Each of these boys have prepared a short statement to read to you, to let you know just a little bit about how each of them feels. Are you willing to hear them out, Vin?” 

Is she serious? This is mental. You laugh again nervously, rolling your shoulders back. 

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, dear. You always have a choice. You can leave if you like, at any time. No one will hold you down or force you to do anything you don’t want to do. This is a safe space.”

Fuck this woman. You don’t feel very safe right now. In fact, you feel very much like you’ve just been the victim of an ambush attack. You wish you had one of the beers you brought instead of the offerings of cheap plastic water bottles. Fuck. That’s most definitely what this is about. The drinking. No wonder Fish had divested you of the byob right when you walked in… dammit. 

“If you do choose to leave, you should know, there are ultimatums in order.”

You don’t need to ask what an ultimatum is, you know very well from Frankie’s “get well soon” era, the terms and conditions of sobriety. If you don’t meet their demands, they’ll cut you off. 

“You don’t say!” You smile, mocking Maureen’s fake-ass sincerity, “Do tell. What are each of your demands? Gentlemen?”

You cross your leg over your knee, in mockery of Marueen’s pose, and lean in with a stupid vacant smile, unnerving everyone in the room besides Santiago, who suddenly deigns to address you, eye to stony eye. 

“It’s not a joke, Vin.” 

“I’m just asking.” You retort with rapid blinks, serving him a sweet as pie, lobotomized smile. How dare they put you in the hot seat like this. If it’s their goal to make you feel uncomfortable, well then, you’re going to dish it right right the hell back.

“Why don’t we start with the letters first, and then we can move on to the… the terms.” 

You feel a slight rush at her faltering tone. At least she’s feeling the thumbscrews too. 

“Benny, why don’t you start.” Fish suggests. And poor Benny looks like he’s been caught in the headlights, checking each person’s encouraging stares before clearing his throat and unfolding his hand-written paper.

A part of you wants to be open to this, to be present. But an even greater part of you wants to make each of them feel like garbage for putting you in this position. You adopt Santiago’s strained posture and take a deep breath before nodding at Benny to let him begin.

Benny surveys the paper, opening and closing his mouth several times before allowing himself to begin. It breaks your heart just a little to hear his stunted words as he reads what he himself has prepared.

“Vin.” He reads, “You are the brightest, sweetest person I think I’ve ever met.” He swallows and looks at you nervously before continuing. “It makes me sad to see you so sad. You are a bright light in the world and it hurts me to see you dim that brightness. I can’t imagine how hurt you must be feeling and I only want the best for you…”

You aren’t going to cry. You aren’t going to give into this sentimental crap. They’ve tricked him, they all tricked poor sweet Benny into this stupid charade to manipulate you and you are NOT going to give them the benefit of a win. You scoff at him openly and lean back into the couch, arms still folded. Benny glances nervously all around and folds the paper up, setting it down on the coffee table. 

“It goes on an on… I’m not great with words.. and I’m mostly the odd man out when it comes to blocking you if you don’t comply. I just can’t lie to you and tell you that I’m not going to pick up the phone if you need help. I’m sorry to everyone if that fucks up ‘the plan’ but I just… I’m here for you, okay? I love you, we all love you.”

You bite your top lip and feel a vein in your neck bubble and pulse against your refusal to cry at his sentiments. You tap your feet a couple times agains the carpet and sniff, trying to make it as disempassioned of a sound as you possibly can. 

“Thank you, Benjamin.” Maureen says warmly. “That was beautiful. Will?” She gestures to the other Miller brother who nods with a steeliness that is just so William Miller. He pulls out his own sheet of paper, taking a deep breath like he’s about to dive into an ice bath on a polar-bear-swim. 

“Vin.” He sucks his tongue in his mouth like a lozenge for a moment before proceeding. “Not a damn one of us can ever know what it’s like to be in your shoes. And I hope for my brother’s sake, all my brother’s sakes, that we never know such heartache.”

“My husband died, don’tcha know? Very tragic.” You stage whisper to Maureen who nods at you sympathetically before nodding encouragingly at Will to continue. 

“Shut up and listen.” Santiago harshly grits at you, and for a moment, you feel properly chastised, giving Will an apologetic nod. He proceeds, but your eyes are on Santiago. On his icy stare. His breathing matches your own from earlier, his chest puffing in and out with what appears to be rage. Serves him fucking right. He’s the one who orchestrated this whole stupid thing. Let him be angry all he wants. Let him work himself up. Sanctimonious ass. 

You suck at your front teeth with your tongue behind your lips, listening to Will. 

“I knew you at your best. And now I’ve seen you at your worst. My love and care for you has never changed. I hope you are receptive to the help and love that we offer you, and if not, it pains me to say, that I…” he pauses for a long time, the silence washing over even yourself, who wishes to break it for all that its worth. “That I can’t stand by, can’t be a party to your own self destruction….” His voice cracks, “you’re family, Vin. And I love you like a flesh and blood sister… let us help you, let us be there for you like you’ve always been there for us.”

Will folds his paper slowly and scratches the back of his neck with alarming force, leaning back and nodding. Ben claps him on the shoulder and you scoff once again, at incredulous at the ridiculousness of the scene. 

“You think this is funny, do you?” Santi damn near shouts.

“Kind of.” You lie, giving him nothing but a blasé look.

Maureen half-raises out of her chair placing a phantom hand to each yourself and Santiago. “Lets each of us take a breath, okay… very good. Vin, honey, we will hear you out at the end, but for right now, we’re going to let these gentlemen say their piece, is that alright?”

“Fine.” You state sweetly without emotion. Santiago has to physically bite back a retort before agreeing. 

“Francisco, would you like to be next?” Maureen asks, marking down some shit or other on her clipboard. 

Frankie rubs your shoulder one last time before letting go of you and taking out the folded paper from his pocket. You hadn’t realized until this very moment how grounding that hand of his on your shoulder had been. You shiver against yourself and feel the oddest sensation of floating out of your own body for a moment until he speaks. 

“Vin. I know better than anyone how you must be feeling right now. It feels like an attack on your very person, I know that. But trust me when I tell you that it isn’t.”

Your face crumples and you scoot further away from him. Truly about to burst out in emotion.

“You feel embarrassed, called out, and ashamed… but that’s not true.” His hand returns to your shoulder and you nod, feeling truly seen for the first time since you walked through the door.

“This isn’t you. This defensive exterior… that’s all it is, just a shell. Underneath it all you’re soft and sweet and you possess a capacity for love the likes of which this world has never known.”

Okay, you might be on the verge of tears.

“Sometimes I think that it’s the nature of life, the way in which the world tries to test and bend us. Never let it break you, sweet Vin. We are here because we KNOW you are stronger than that, we want you to understand that we are in your corner. You mean too damn much to us. In battle, we have a well known saying, ‘no man left behind’, and I for one promise to adhere to that adage… but I…”

Oh here it fucking comes, the fly in the soup, the ‘but’ in the jeans.. “buuutt”…?

“No one can help you unless you’re willing to help yourself. It’s too much to ask for any team to carry an unwilling, injured brother to safety.”

There it is. The stipulation. There’s always the fine print.

“I love you with all my heart, Vin. But if breaking away from us is what you need to hit your bottom? I respect that. And I’ll always be here for you when you’re willing to up and change.”

Caveats. So many fucking caveats. It’s all just one big ruse. This whole goddamn production. Just so they can feel better about shoving you out of their lives. 

They didn’t NEED to go to such lengths! They could have just fucking told you, WITHOUT a mediator, that they’d feel better if you “didn’t tag along”. You would have understood. 

Instead, they chose to put on a whole fucking show with a goddamn supporting cast. Jesus christ. 

You shake your head at Fish’s closing statements while he folds up his paper, stuffing it back into his breast pocket before he cracks open a plastic bottle of water and takes a thirsty swig.

Santiago is visibly irate, his leg bouncing at a sixteenth beat, his jaw sawing on some particularly hateful prose you’re certain is locked in his tight right fist. 

“Thank you for sharing, Francisco. That was so touching. Santiago? Are you ready?”

Santi doesn’t spare a glance for Maureen, doesn’t bow to any of it, he grits his teeth as he pries the paper from his own clenched fist, he smooths it out on his bent thigh, and contemplates the words he wrote himself, glancing up at you every five seconds. 

You try to give him the most carefree demeanor you can emulate, hoping it will fuck up his game. 

The room sits in silence while Santiago routinely drags his hand over his thick stubble, framing his mouth with his index and thumb. 

He blinks and blinks and blinks at the paper in his lap. Its more than a few blinks before you realize his statement is typed.

Not handwritten.

 On white paper. 

Unlike the others, inked hastily on yellow legal pads. 

And his paper is substantially more worn. His closing fucking argument is beyond prepared. You could have prepped yourself, if only you had fucking KNOWN you’d be the sole member of your own defense team. Fuck this uneven playing field bullshit.

“Go ahead, Yago! Air out those grievances!” You falsely and elatedly state, crossing your hands behind your head and leaning back into the soft cushions of Santiago’s couch. You even shuck off your shoes and prop your feet on the coffee table. Something you KNOW Santi despises.

Who cares? Who fucking CARES? None of them want you around. They’ve made that abundantly fucking clear. So? Go out with a bang. Why the hell not? If they’re going to talk shit about you from now until forever, might as well give them something to talk about. You facsimilate an encouraging smile towards Santiago. He visibly gags and crumples up the paper in his lap, tossing the offending script behind his shoulder and immedaitely sinks to his knees.

He crawls to you.

On all fours. He Crawls. Resting his hands on your knees once he arrives to you. It’s impossible to deny him at this angle, at this presence. Your hands slump down to your sides and you lean forward slightly. Your nose pricking painfully with the effort of keeping the hot flood held inside.

He shakes his head somberly. “I don’t for a second believe… that there is any combination of words I can say, some kind of magic phrase…. That will make you understand…. Make you understand…. “

“you need your script to keep going, Yago? Maybe Maureen can grab it from behind the couch.”

It’s cruel. Its fucking cruel. You know how cruel the words are the moment they fly off your tongue, but you can’t help yourself. You want it to hurt. To leave a mark on your way out of his life. The cruelty is your sole line of defense against the bare neutrality and admission of his feelings. And what’s the party line? Oh, right. FUCK his feelings. 

Santiago doesn’t ask Maureen for help, doesn’t spare a commiserate glance with anyone in the room. He simply rests his forehead against your knee. 

“You’ll never know. You’ll never know… I know you’re broken, I know it, and—“

“I’m the broken one? I need to be fixed? Me? And I suppose you’re going to be the one to do that? Fuck off.”

As hard as you try to sound, you can't disguise the stupid hot flow of tears that slide down your face. You can't cover up how your voice hitches with a sobbing breath at the last word. Even your shaking hands that try to remove his from your knees, betray you in their weakness. Like your bravery was nothing but a paper facade. Set dressing. And the rock that is Santiago Garcia can't be budged by such a pitiful effort.

"I won't. Vin. I won't fuck off. I will see you better if it fucking kills me. I will see you better if it burns me to the ground."

"Now that's not really--" Maureen tries to steer the conversation to program-approved ultimatums. It is doubtful her handbook would allow for pledges of life-oaths at this stage in the game.

"What the fuck are you going to do, huh, Yago? Kidnap me, tie me up till I'm dry? Scare me sober?"

"If I have to."

"Hold on just a moment, I think we might be getting carried--" Maureen gently offers once again.

"Bullshit."

"Not bullshit. It's not plan A, but if you make me do it--"

"We are getting really off course right now, Mr. Garcia, I wonder if we could take a step--"

"Well I'm certainly not doing whatever the fuck plan A is. Treatment program with this one here." You gesture to Maureen who is now grabbing her wooden necklace in slack-jawed shock.

Santiago breathes hot through his nostrils and shakes his head with a grimace.

"You sure about that, Vin? Hmmm, it's last call for the easy route."

You poke him on the chest, "Plan A, Plan Z, doesn't matter to me because I'm not doing a fucking thing you say, Pope."

He rises up quickly, grabbing you harshly by the elbow and hauls your protesting form towards the front door.

"Always gotta put up a fucking fight, do shit the hard way. Fine by me. B it is."

[okay, like, I have to end this here because it's getting too long but option B is taking her to a cabin and basically detoxing there.... and in my mind it does actually go well and have a happy ending. If you made it this far, congratulations and im sorry for subjecting you to that. angst. Here, have some silly pics of Oscar for your troubles]

#angst prompts

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

(credits: @hallowedbecastiel)

thank you, for 3333!! 

it makes me so, so happy to be making this post, because you’re really all such a wonderful bunch of people, and i’m so happy i met you all on here, because you constantly make me realize how joining this hellsite was one of the best decisions of my life!! it’s made me more me, in every sense of the statement, and i can’t thank you enough for it. 

i love you, and i’m flattered, and very grateful. so, reaching this weird, awesome milestone is a reason to celebrate, i’ve decided, and i thought that in addition to accepting *weird* fic-prompts (currently being worked on, do stay tuned <3) i would do some blog rates! 

(i’ll be honest, i’ve seen a bunch of these going around, and they seemed exciting. @quicksilver-ships convinced me the rest of the way. and in @hopeisthewholepoint‘s wise words: this is lowkey a selfish ploy for human interaction. please forgive me.)

rules:

you must be following me - i’d need to know you for these, won’t i?

send me a 🎉 and/or a 🌈 (format under the cut)

if you’re not up for one of those - ask me something random, and i have to answer.

or - send me a weird prompt, and i write you a [< 500] ficlet. (fair warning: this one might go past today, but it shall be done :D. i write most ships, also genfics, just no incestuous or paedophilic pairings)

filter #thankyoufor3333, if you don’t want to see it!

(entries close at 10 pm IST, on 10th of June. pending blogrates and prompts will be answered as soon as possible.)

🎉 BLOG RATE

handle/blog title: awesomesies | nOICE | t-that’s actually genius | G O A L S !! | i love your brain????? | PETER PARKER

icon/header: babie!! | SO PRETTY | *heart-eyes* | i’ve been staring at this for the last hour | added10yearstomylifespan | ANTHONY JANTHONY CROWLEY

theme/bg: lovely! | extremely aesthetic | *chef’s kiss* | that’s my favorite color!!!!! | this makes me very happy | AMY SANTIAGO

posts: not my thing but live your best life | fantastic!! | *cri* yOuR bRaIn |  *stares at you in wonder while you rock the blogging game* | i’ve been scrolling for 72 hours | SAM WINCHESTER

following? no but i love you | am now!! | try and stop me :) | YOU’RE A BEANFELLOW, SILLY | f o r e v e r

compliments: (totally picked this up from @hopeisthewholepoint) please let me say nice things about you. pretty please, and thank you. 

🌈 RANDOM TIDBITS

vibes: admit it, you’re cool | wOnDeRFul,,pure,,,,,go you | my kind of person <3 | so creative!!!!! | uwu, i’d like to keep them | EEEEEEEE

time of day: dawn | morning | afternoon | evening | night | is-it-late-or-is-it-early quarantine special

hogwarts house: slytherin | hufflepuff | gryffindor | ravenclaw

genre: fantasy | drama | coming of age | history | psychological thriller | r o m c o m

supernatural seasons i associate you with: 1 - 3 | 4 - 5 | 6 - 8 | 9 - 12 | 13 - 15

thoughts on interaction: now it begins | i see you around a lot, and am hunting for a chance to message | may we ~ uh ~ talk more? | imissthewayweusedtobe  | you’re on every seventh post of my blog | b e a n f r e n 

compliments: you can try, but there’s no ditching this bit. :)

tagging a few of my mutuals <333: @daisy-jeon @legendary-destiel @screamatthescreen @bluefirecas @hellfire37 @moderatelypanickedbiromantic @3dg310rdsupreme @quicksilver-ships @peanutbutterandgrapejelly @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @rauko-is-a-free-elf @i-miss-balthazar @callmeglucose @babeyinatrenchcoat @but-for-the-gods-three-days @specialagentrin @whiskeydeans @what-the-fuck-is-a-grape @wigglebox​ @noemithenephilim @super-sootica @love-nakamura

#thankyoufor3333 #sheya shall deliver #my favorite mutuals #yay!!! #hope you have a wonderful day #and i hope you participate #that'd make it a lot more fun <3

[johnny-and-dora]

could never want for more (when you’re near)

65. “help me find my shirt.” “you know, as much as i want to...i don’t want to.” requested by anon or, shameless early relationship fluff counts as a healthy coping mechanism, right?

read on ao3 -

Amy blinks herself awake in the early morning light, coming to her senses slowly, head clouded by a slight hangover that seems to pair nicely with the foggy autumnal morning outside. She’s confused and honestly, a little disappointed to find she’s alone in her bed – she has to admit she treasures her boyfriend’s sleepy smile in the mornings, the way he’ll pull her closer to him before he’s even fully awake, mumble a muffled good morning that tickles, a low and warm hum in her ear. The days that start off that way always seem to go better.

The confusion only increases tenfold when her alarm clock reads 7:17am despite it being a rare, precious shared day off with said boyfriend, who is notably a) not a morning person and b) mysteriously absent, his phone missing from the extra charging cable she bought him.

She’s dragging him to one of her favourite art galleries today, knowing the exhibition they have on the art of movie posters will catch his attention. Then it’s lunch in a cute French-themed café she found and a walk in the park near her apartment. She’s been looking forward to spending this time with Jake all week. He even put a reminder on his phone so he wouldn’t forget, just one of many recent tiny gestures that speak a million words about how much effort he’s been putting into their relationship.

Amy’s about to launch a full investigation as to why he’s out of bed criminally early when he emerges from the hallway clad only in his boxers, phone in hand.

“Holt called.” He says while wriggling into his jeans, grimacing apologetically in a way she knows means all her plans are instantly out the window. “Apparently a witness came in with new info on the Abernathy murders.”

Amy nods, understanding at once – he’s been working this case for weeks, desperate for any kind of new lead. There’s been a lot of coffee drinking and teeth grinding and her offering sympathetic smiles over her monitor whenever he lifts his head from a long period slumped against his desk.

There’s also been a lot of letting him choose where they order from or what film to watch and her letting him be the big spoon. She even brought some Orangina for when he’s over, which she knows he appreciated even if it apparently wasn’t exactly right (She personally can’t tell the difference, but she’s not about to start that debate again).

And as much as she mourns her original plans to spend the day together, Amy understands how important this is, likely more than most other girlfriends would. Hell, if their roles were reversed, she’d probably be halfway out the door already.

That doesn’t necessarily mean she can’t mess with him a little, though. Or make the most of the time they have while he’s still here. In the name of maximum productivity, of course.

Amy Santiago is nothing but efficient.

She props herself up on her elbow to get a better look at him, purposefully letting the comforter drop to her lap so she instantly has the upper hand in any negotiations they might be making. He’s fully engrossed in the search for the rest of his clothes, strewn across her bedroom a little too enthusiastically last night in a post-Shaw’s haze. It could take him a while to notice her, but it’s worth the wait.

“Will you help me find my shirt?”

“You know, as much as I want to…” She says, slipping into that low sultry voice she knows he’s utterly powerless against, “I really don’t want to.”

Jake finally glances up at her and freezes midway through putting on his sock, eyes suddenly wide.

“Oh, that is so not fair.”

“What?” She says innocently. “You’re my extremely cute, very handsome charming boyfriend. I’m just trying to get a good look before you disappear and leave me alone all day.”

She’s expecting the usual bravado or blatant over-confidence that Jake usually exudes, some kind of snappy retort or playful engagement in their usual verbal sparring. What takes her aback is the way he goes quiet, wonder and maybe even shyness flooding his expression.

Jake is a lot of things. He has a wide and vivid emotional spectrum that she’s gotten to know pretty well over the past few years. He is rarely ever shy.

“You…you think I’m handsome?” He says – and there’s the dopiest, cutest disbelieving look on his face that melts away all her playfulness entirely.

“Of course I do.” She says, softer now. “I mean, I like you for lots of other reasons, but- “

He perches tentatively on the end of her bed, shirt clearly forgotten. “You like me for lots of reasons?”

“Oh my god, yes, you dork.” She laughs lightly, sitting up and tucking her hair behind both ears. “I thought…that was obvious?” Amy gestures back and forth between them, loosely symbolising the whole relationship thing that they’ve been doing for almost three months now, and is relieved to finally see him smile, brilliant and bright.

“I…yes. Yeah, of course. I like you too, for a million billion different reasons, obviously- “ He runs his hand through his already messy hair, face a little flushed. It’s a sight to behold, a flustered, half-naked Jake Peralta. She’s studied many revered and respected pieces of art in her time, but he might be her favourite.

“It’s just, uh. Sometimes it’s still kinda surreal to me. That you actually like me back. That we’re, um…that I’m…”

“My boyfriend?” She prompts, and the reverent look on his face could power the entire city in a blackout. He shifts closer, enough for the scent of his cologne to pleasantly flood her senses.

“Yes. That I’m Amy Santiago’s boyfriend. Man, I should get that on a t-shirt.”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh Ames, you know Charles is probably hand-stitching them as we speak.” Amy wrinkles her nose in disgust, pushing him away as he laughs, bright and loud and sweet. The world is fuller, better somehow when he laughs, even if it’s about Charles’s weird obsession with their romantic relationship. Suddenly things not going to plan is an opportunity to take stock of her stationary needs and to organise a date night rather than the onset of a full-on anxiety attack.

“Ugh, I’m sorry.” He sighs, intertwining their hands – Amy furrows her brow, confused.

“For what? Charles? He’s pretty intense, but his enthusiasm can be actually kinda-“

“No, no. I meant for ruining all the plans you had for us today.”

“Oh. You’re sweet, but it’s okay. It’s the job, you and I know that better than anyone.” She says softly, unable to resist the impulse to card her fingers through his soft curls. He takes her hand back, pressing a kiss to each of her knuckles.

“Still. It sucks. Now I have to leave my gorgeous, incredible girlfriend to go work a stupid case I don’t even care about.”

“Jake, this is all you’ve cared about for weeks.”

“That is so not true.” He says, pouting. “You’re what I care about.”

And well, there it is. If she wasn’t going to tempt him to stay a little longer before, now she barely has a choice. They easily slip from a sweet kiss into something hungrier, more passionate – painfully aware of her morning breath and general dedication to punctuality, Amy tries one last fruitless attempt to get Jake to work on time.

“You’re going to be late…” It comes out breathy and trembling and it’s poorly timed, really, because he’s just started trailing kisses down her neck and collarbone in that way she’ll never get enough of.  

“Don’t care.” He mumbles into her shoulder, warm and low in exactly the way she’s been craving. “Amy Santiago thinks I’m handsome.”

It’s quite a bit later when Amy finally manages to muster up the willpower to gently pry him off her, pupils blown and breathing heavy. She revels in the moment before laughing as he grumbles about having to put his jeans on again. Then she dedicates herself to studying his sleepy, blissed-out lopsided grin as he finally manages to find his shirt, partially hidden underneath her bed.

“You know I’m going to ride that high for weeks, right?” He grins at her as he buttons up his slightly rumpled flannel, smoothing it down as best he can.

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves him off. “Don’t tell anyone the reason why you’re so late. I have a reputation to maintain.”

She scrolls through Instagram as he laces up his sneakers, smiling at the message from Kylie asking about the guy in her most recent post. It’s a slightly blurry selfie of the two of them, a couple drinks in at the squad’s latest Shaw’s get-together, her head resting on his shoulder. It may not be the best photo ever taken, but the way Jake looks at her so tenderly, so happily, makes her incredibly fond of it, nonetheless.

And it’s not like he fills a missing part of her or anything equally as mushy. She’s always been whole, an entire living breathing person that doesn’t need a relationship to sustain her. But there’s something, there’s always been something about Jake that makes her feel lighter whenever he’s around. Less trapped in her own head, less worried about what other people think.

His sweet and open good-naturedness and his talent for making her laugh take care of that. And he always takes care of her. Just as she’ll always take care of him. That’s been an unspoken truth for much longer than either of them would easily admit.  

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? And we’re doing a proper date night tonight. Fancy restaurant and a movie that isn’t Die Hard and everything.”

“Wow.”

“I know. I am the king of romance.” He leans in closer, eyes wide, whispering fake-conspiratorially. “We might even get to second base.”

Amy snorts. “If you’re lucky.”

“Lucky enough to be with you.”

He kisses her once more, quick and sweet, before hurrying out the door; Amy dreamily ghosts her fingers over her lips, grinning. She’s never had something like this with anyone before, and though it scares her a little, she secretly revels in the quiet thrill of already caring so deeply about him.

With promises of many more mornings like these glimmering on the horizon, it’s all too easy for her to climb back under the covers and enjoy the sweetest of dreams.

#b99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #jake x amy #brooklyn 99 #this is literally just them being crazy into each other bc. idk. it's what i personally need n to cope lol #i hope you enjoy! #my writing #shut up sian