in the summer.

you feel like summertime; you took this heart of mine.

[svntiagos]

bea.

         are you sure you’re okay ?  she wasn’t  .  she wasn’t even close  .  she was scared  ,  she was confused  ,  she was  lonely  .  she absolutely was  not  okay  .  she wanted to nod  ,  advert her attention towards the ground  ,  brush it off as she always did  .  not  thinking about their current situation or the fact that the future was  unknown  was her way of coping with it  .  she began to do just that  ,  one simple nod  ,  her eyes connecting with his  .  she needed someone  .  someone to know that she  wasn’t  okay  .  her nod stops halfway and her head shakes softly  ,  the fears that had burned themselves into her brain were now  rolling  down her cheeks  .  “  no ,  i’m -  i’m not okay .  ”  she admitted  .  “  i’m  terrified  and i’m …  alone .  i don’t -  i don’t fit in anywhere  .  i -  i spent my entire life trying to make people proud .  that’s all i did ,  that’s all i was .  and now that they’re gone ?  i’m nothing .  ”  this was the first time she’d verbally expressed her thoughts  ,  the first time she’d  cried  since the trip  .  “  i should have disappeared with the rest of them .  ”  @svntiagos

he’s prepared to back off -- everyone always answers that way, it seems, eager to prove that they’re fine and, in some cases, sneering at him for even implying that they aren’t.  but when she stops mid-way and backtracks, santi’s eyebrows draw together in concern, recalculating for a moment as she admits the TRUTH. and in moments, she’s crumbling to pieces faster than he can catch her, and he swallows thickly in an attempt to buy himself enough time to compose himself. “ i-i --- “ he begins, but isn’t sure how to continue, her display of emotion acting like a magnet for his own, pulling the agitation and fear that’s been steeping in his veins over the past few weeks straight to the surface. the subtle itch under his skin is an unfortunate side-effect, and he scratches at his arm idly to soothe it. “ i’m scared, too, ” he admits, just barely above a whisper as his eyes lift to meet hers. his own are watery and reddened, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stifle any tears from falling. “ but -- but you’re not NOTHING, bea. don’t say that. that’s not true. ” he reiterates it multiple times to fill the silence, afraid it’ll suffocate both of them if he lets it linger. “ you’re not -- you’re not nothing. you matter. you matter so much. ” he shakes his head, sniffling as the first few tears claim their victory over his flushed cheeks. “ i-i ------ it’s -- it’s so hard, bea. i can barely do this without georgie. i ------ ” he hiccups slightly, moving a hand up to wipe at his nose, dry his eyes. “ ----- i-i couldn’t -- i couldn’t do this without you. i can’t. ”

[thedailyshawnmendes]

x

[svntiagos]

♭

♭ : a song that my muse absolutely can’t stand.

summer by CALVIN HARRIS.

“ when i met you in the summerto my heartbeat soundwe fell in loveas the leaves turned brown. ”

the song blew up over the spring/summer of 2014, when santiago was in eighth grade. he went on a baseball trip with the rest of the team and he’s pretty sure he heard the song play at least a hundred times between the radio & people blasting it on the transport buses because everybody was obsessed with it. now it just reminds him of middle school, which santi considers an incredibly embarrassing part of his life, so he shudders a little bit whenever it happens to come on.

[bunchofrpmemes]

Bold all that apply:

[svntiagos]

My muse knows how to…

bake a cake from scratch | ride a horse | drive stick | speak a second language | dance | catch a fish | play an instrument | throw a punch | build a deck | ice skate | unclog a drain | program a computer | change a flat tire | fire a gun | sew | juggle | play poker | paint | fly a kite | sculpt | write poetry | change a diaper | sing | shoot a bow and arrow | ride a bike | swim | sail a boat | do a back flip | play chess | give CPR | pitch a tent | flirt | stitch a wound | read palms | use chopsticks | write in cursive | use an electric drill | braid hair | make a campfire | make a mixed drink | do sudoku puzzles | wrap a gift | give a good massage | jump-start a car | roll their tongue | do magic tricks | do yoga | tie a tie | skip a rock | shuffle a deck of cards | read Morse code | pick a lock

[svntiagos]

leo.

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 : @svntiagos

𝐎𝐍𝐄  𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓  𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒  care  for  others.  This  was  something  that  his  father  had  advised  him  to  do  from  the  age  of  five.  Perhaps  this  was  what  shaped  his  character.  Leo  felt  as  though  he  had  let  down  his  father  for  allowing  George’s  accident  to  occur.  If  he  weren’t  drunk,  he  could  have  prevented  it.  Leo  still  stank  as  though  he  didn’t  have  access  to  a  nice  jacuzzi  bathtub  back  at  the  frat  house.  His  hair  was  a  rats  nest,  something  that  would  have  given  his  mother  a  fright  if  she  were  HERE.  The  accident  was  why  he  refused  to  drink  at  parties.  Leo  couldn’t  comprehend  what  overcame  him  that  night  to  do  so.  He  recalled  being  with  Emmeline  and  the  next  standing  next  to  his  BROTHERS  with  bloodied  fists.  

And  speaking  of  brothers…

He  spotted  a  familiar  figure  sitting  not  too  far  away  from  where  he  stood.  Leo  slid  his  hands  in  his  front  pockets  before  joining  Santi.  “Penny  for  your  thoughts?”  Leo  asked  and  seat  himself  next  to  him.  Maybe  checking  in  on  the  younger  one  could  somehow  make  amends  for  what  had  happened.

he doesn’t know how long it’s been anymore. at least a week, maybe two by now -- but all he knows is that things are beginning to unravel. this is the third time he’s left his house since it happened, he knows that, too; and it’s oddly nice out, the blue sky casting a warm light over everything, sunbeams illuminating the sidewalks and streets through the leaves of the neighbourhood trees. he’s just SITTING -- out on the edge of a flowerbed like he had when he first got off the bus, except this time, he’s not handing out water; he’s just SITTING. thinking, existing, trying to enjoy the cool breeze and warm sunlight, and it’s difficult, but he reminds himself that the effort is worth something. it may not be MUCH, but it’s worth SOMETHING.

when somebody speaks to him, his head lifts, the glaze in his eyes clearing up as he returns to reality. it takes him another moment to react, but he gives leo a soft, sheepish smile, scooting just slightly to the right to make space for him to sit down. “ a dollar and we’ll call it a deal, ” he says, hoping the exhaustion in his eyes and the paleness of his cheeks doesn’t dampen his attempt at humor. he glances over at him again, raising an eyebrow with a quiet, subdued chuckle. “ ----you, uh ---- don’t take this personally, but -- you look like you got hit by a bus, man. ”

[svntiagos]

lane.

          SHE’S  ISOLATED  HERSELF  JUST  THE  way  she  likes  it.  with  her  back  to  a  wall  ,  she  leans  against  one  of  the  local  businesses  and  watches  her  peers  mill  around  the  town  square  –  some  in  groups  ,  some  in  pairs  and  some  alone.  if  she  can  space  out  and  forget  about  george  ,  it’s  almost  like  a  repeat  of  the  night  they  got  off  the  busses.  she  can  see  the  fear  in  people’s  walks  and  the  stiffness  of  grief  as  they  link  arms  with  their  friends.  she  can’t  relate.  she  turns  his  head  the  instant  santi  approaches  her  ,  trying  to  register  a  kind  smile  on  her  lips.  she  knows  from  school  that  he  was  close  to  george  ,  closer  than  she  could’ve  ever  been.  but    ,    she  knows  from  herself  that  he  doesn’t  want  kindness  and  coddling.  she’d  never  want  people  always  careful  around  her  like  the  way  people  have  been  around  him  –  maybe  all  he  needs  is  someone  who  treats  him  indifferently.            “  i’m  never  busy  ,  santi,  ”  she  says  with  a  shake  of  her  head  ,  standing  up  from  the  wall.              “  what’s  up  ?  ”

her words make him smile in a way that looks a little sheepish, but above all, he feels relieved. it wasn’t ‘ i’m never too busy for you, ’ wasn’t ‘ of course not, i’m here for you, what do you need? ’ -- and she didn’t scramble to make room for him once he approached her like everybody else has. she just... looked at him and answered his question, and for a MOMENT he forgets about everything that’s happened in the past few days. it’s like a painkiller; it eases the ache in his bones just for that split second, and he slowly leans against the wall beside her. he just wants to talk, he decides, about things that aren’t so grim. he just wants to painlessly exist for a few minutes. “ d’you ------ ” he furrows his eyebrows, letting out a soft chuckle as he tries to figure out a way to phrase the question. “ ----i just, uh. ” he pauses to sniff and rub at his nose. “ i’ve been thinking, lately, and i just ----- i think i might be, like ------ not... straight. ” it’s not the first time he’s had this conversation, so it doesn’t feel like coming out; he’s not afraid. but it does feel strange, that’s for sure. “ i just ----- i look at everybody the same, y’know? ------- everybody’s the same to me. y'know what i mean? and i just -- i don't know ---- what that means. ”

[svntiagos]

nat. ( @quxxotic ! )

the only two people he’s seen in the past week or so have been natalia and jake -- and lucia every now and then, but she and santi were constantly playing a game of who can pretend the other doesn’t exist the longest, a game that started long before the storm. regardless of how hollow he feels, he appreciates the company, and he knows they could use it, too -- which is why he makes two cups of tea ( one for him and one for nat ) and carries the mugs carefully over to the couch, which is laden with blankets and pillows in a sort of symbolic safe zone. the credits to an episode of spongebob squarepants flash on the tv screen across the room. “ what d’you wanna watch next? ” he asks as he hands her one mug, his voice softer than usual -- he hasn’t been his boisterous self since the party, honestly, and even then it was over-amplified by alcohol. he settles down into the nest of blankets, pulling a plush one over his legs where they’re crossed on front of him, feet propped up on the coffee table. “ m’pretty sure netflix is working. the new season of black mirror came out, didn’t it? we can watch that... ” he trails off, glancing over at her briefly -- not just to wait for an answer, but simply to see how she’s doing.

[svntiagos]

balo. ( @sunshineandbalo ! )

“ d’you think he knows what’s going on? ” he lifts his eyes from where he’s crouched down on the sidewalk, one hand gently scratching behind the dog’s ear while the other rests on his own knee for balance. west ham had a number of stray dogs before the storm, and honestly, the one thing that’s pulling him through all this is the fact that they were still there -- and remarkably friendly, now that everybody’s feeding them and taking care of them. ( and sure, it’s sappy, but it makes his heart feel a little warmer knowing that among all this chaos, people still have the heart to take care of those that can’t take care of themselves. ) he looks back down at the dog -- a small beagle-looking mix -- who had toddled up to them seemingly out of nowhere, and was now happily accepting their attention. “ like ----- d’you think he knows that everybody’s gone? d’you think he cares? ”

[svntiagos]

lane. ( @lanied ! )

ever since IT happened, he’s been surrounded by the people he loves, and the people who love him. and don’t get him wrong -- that’s all he could ever ask for and more, and he’d never, EVER be ungrateful for the care and consideration; but after a few days, he’s just begun to feel... suffocated, is all. not in a bad way -- suffocated might not be the best word -- he’s just tired of being read like an open book, exhausted by people knowing too much; he just needs a break, is all. needs somebody who doesn’t know how deeply the whole thing has affected him -- somebody who will talk to him without a lingering feeling of trepidation, like they have to walk on eggshells lest he fall apart again. he just wants to be normal for a bit, talk about normal things, so when he sees delaney, he approaches her a little bit more readily than he usually would; they weren’t in the same circles at school, weren’t ever really CLOSE, but god, that’s what he NEEDS right now. so he saunters up to her, awkward and boyish about it, hands stuffed in his pockets, chin tipped up in a silent hello. “ hey, uh ----- ” he purses his lips into a line, falling quiet for a moment as his mind begins to recoil. maybe this was a bad idea -- maybe he should just go home. “ i, uh --- are you -- are you busy? ”

[svntiagos]

♞ ( bea )

send a symbol for my muse to … ♞ physically pick your muse up and carry them.

if anyone knows anything about santiago flores, it’s that he shows love, affection, compassion physically – he communicates through TOUCH. a hug to tell whoever it is that he loves them, a gentle hand on a shoulder to remind them he’s listening, or just a brush of his fingers over their wrist to say he’s there – something like ninety percent of what he means to say comes without a single word. 

so what is he trying to say when he creeps up behind beatrice in the courtyard of west ham high during their lunch break where she’s standing in a small group of her friends with the intent of grabbing her around the waist and carrying her off, knowing full well that she’s going to flip her shit? 

nothing, really. he’s just being a shithead.

“ GOTCHA ! ” he lets out a manic cackle as he snatches her around the waist from behind, a bear hug in every sense of the phrase, lifting her off the ground and barreling forwards about ten feet before he sets her down again. he’s laughing, doubling over slightly once she’s standing on her own two feet. once she’s facing him, he straightens up again, still cackling in delight, hand lifted to cover his mouth.

“ —–you shoulda seen your face ! ” he squeezes out behind bouts of laughter. the whole situation is reminiscent of all the times he hid around corners as a kid and jumped out at her just to freak her out, or actively tried to trip her mid-stride just for the heck of it. ( you know that trope of ‘ boy being mean to the girl he has a crush on ? ’ alive and well in the form of thirteen-year-old santi and beatrice. )

once he’s done laughing, he just grins, boyish and mischievous with only a slightly sorry glint in his eyes. he pulls her into a hug then, a real one, not the kind he’d just used to manhandle her – a softer, sweeter one, the kind that would make his heart race if this were five years ago and he was six inches shorter with a face full of acne and an unfortunate haircut. nowadays, though, it’s commonplace; it’s comfortable. “ ——hey, bea. ” 

[svntiagos]

ii

ii.    if sharing a bed ,  what side does he / she / they sleep on ? 

ngl, he’s the asshole that will sleep horizontal at the end of the bed, so that you have to curl up to fit. he doesn’t mean to – he’s just usually the last one awake at sleepovers so he’ll find wherever he can fit with a pillow and blanket and pass out there. ( like a dog, if you will. )

[svntiagos]

i. & x.

i.     what is your muse’s before - bed routine ?

santi doesn’t really have one ! he goes to bed at really strange hours, especially during the school year. he gets home at around nine o’clock from baseball practice, and then he has a whole slew of homework assignments to complete ( that he’s usually hellbent on completing, since his ability to play baseball is contingent on his grades ), so he goes to bed any time between one and four in the morning. and when he does, he just passes the fuck out.

x.   does your muse snore ?     sleepwalk ?     sleeptalk ?

he definitely snores. like, it’s appalling. sometimes at sleepovers his friends will banish him to a separate room because he snores so loud. otherwise, he doesn’t sleepwalk or sleeptalk – in fact, he barely moves at all. he sleeps like a log.

[svntiagos]

[rp-memes-atyourservice]

Manhandling symbol starters

[mikvere-blog]

rp-memes-atyourservice‌:

Send one, or send symbol & “reverse” to switch the muse placements!

★ - drag my muse by the arm ⁂ - grab my muse by the front of their shirt, possibly shoving them back ✱ - take my muse by the hips to carefully move them out of their way ➜ - smack my muse upside the head ⌧ - grip my muse by the back of the neck © - put a hand on my muse’s back to steer them somewhere ✂ - point sternly at a chair and tell my muse to sit down ✉ - push my muse back down when they try to get out of bed (perhaps involving illness, injury, or sleep deprivation) ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up ♚ - put a hand on my muse’s knee while sitting next to them, to discourage them from standing up ♧ - slap my muse’s hand away from something they shouldn’t touch ♦ - grab my muse’s hair and yank ♤ - slam a door shut before my muse can leave the room ♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them ♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye ♨ - rub my muse down with a sponge/wet cloth  ☀ - pin my muse with their arms behind their back ☠ - slam my muse into a wall ☾ - wrestle/pin my muse to the ground

Add as much or as little context as you’d like!

[dirobinson-deactivated20200201]

CHARACTER BUILDING :  Sleeping ! we all need to sleep ,  but our sleeping habits can say a lot about us !    send me some questions about how my muse sleeps !      i.     what is your muse’s before - bed routine ? ii.    if sharing a bed ,  what side does he / she / they sleep on ? iii.   is your muse a cuddly sleeper ,  or does he / she / they need space to sleep ?    iv.   does he / she / they hog the covers ? v.    how many pillows does your muse sleep with ? vi.   what is his / her / their preferred sleeping position ? vii.  how many hours of sleep does your muse get each night ? viii. does your muse fall asleep easily ,  as soon as his / her / their head hits the pillow ?   or does your muse toss   &&   turn ? ix.  does your muse wake up frequently throughout the night ? x.   does your muse snore ?     sleepwalk ?     sleeptalk ? xi.   does your muse wake up easily in the morning ,  or is it a struggle ?

[svntiagos]

          content warning: death mention, blood mention, inability to eat, grieving a loss.

jake.

he could have stopped it. that was the only thing coursing through jake’s mind thirty minutes after george had passed. jake could have stopped the fight. he had tried to, before george - perfect, sweet george - had stepped in. if jake had just been able to contain things, if he’d been able to get into the middle of it and convince everyone to just go home, george would still be here. his childhood friend would still be breathing and smiling, not getting colder and colder with each minute. washing the blood off of himself in the church kitchen, a sob finally racked his body. a product of being a son in a conservative family, jake never really cried. it was a sign of weakness, his father always said. “real men don’t cry.” so, jake didn’t. but right now, he couldn’t stop himself, as he thought back to how small and sad george had looked as he died. at the sound of approaching footsteps, jake forced himself to breathe. he attempted to hide his tears by wiping his face with the back of his hand, though it helped little. “how could this happen?” he asked, voice just as broken as he felt on the inside.

he hasn’t eaten. the one thing santiago can bring himself to focus on right now is the way his stomach is constricting itself, growling angrily every now and then to remind him of the fact that he hasn’t eaten. not since he left for the trip, anyways -- and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since then ( he hasn’t been keeping track of time, not since... ), but it’s been long enough that he can’t ignore it anymore. the thing is, he knows for a fact that if he tries to eat, he won’t be able to keep it down. so he just thinks about it -- thinks about how he hasn’t eaten, repeats the words over and over in his head, because if he lets his mind wander for even a fraction of a second, he’ll start thinking about georgie, and georgie’s eyes, and his smile, and his voice, and the weight of his body in his lap, the warmth of blood on his hands, and if he had just thought about helping others before he thought about protecting himself, if he hadn’t been so SELFISH, maybe he would have been there, maybe he would’ve been able to -------- 

            ‘how could this happen?’ 

jake’s voice pulls him out of the headspace he’s in, eases the vice grip he has on his own hair where his head is bowed to stare into his lap. he realizes that he’s crying again, tears wetting the fabric of his sweatpants ( the ones his friends had so graciously helped him to change into while he’d been in a semi-catatonic state for a while ). rather than gripping his hair hard enough to make his scalp hurt, he rests his hand on the back of his neck, inhaling slowly, shakily. ( keep breathing, he reminds himself. ) 

“---------i told him to have fun,” he croaks, voice gravelly, wracked by hours of tears, by fits of screaming protests when people tried to move him away from george’s body the previous night. “---------i-i-i --- i told him -- that we were never gonna get --- a-another chance to ----- to party like that.” he sniffles, moving his hand to wipe his nose. “-------i SAID that, jake, i ---- can -- can you believe i SAID that?”

[svntiagos]

sunday, may 26, 2019. 4:56AM.

                                     his knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise,                            deep in his bones where it’ll hurt for weeks.

                                                          “ georgie ?! ”

he wasn’t with him. he hadn’t been anywhere near georgie when it happened. he was across the room, shielding himself from any shattered glass sent flying in his direction by broken beer bottles. he wasn’t even thinking about georgie. he was thinking about himself, taking care of himself, protecting himself. 

but as the crowd parted and the shouts gave way to a quiet murmur, and the tumultuous waves of pushing and shoving slowed to a halt like a sick carnival ride slowing to a stop, santi lowered his hands, looking around, head swinging left and right as he tried to figure out what was going on.

that was eight seconds ago.

now, he’s here, cradling his best friend’s head in his hands, holding him, calling to him ----

“ georgie ? georgie ----- ”

his right hand comes around george’s head to grasp his chin, thumb pressing abnormally hard into the boy’s cheek while his fingers cradle his jaw, shaking as he hoists him into his lap. he can feel blood seeping into the denim of his jeans, and god, he doesn’t want to look. he doesn’t want to know.

“no, no, no, no ---- no, no no, come on, come on, man -----”

he lets out an incredulous laugh, his eyes glossing over. he WON’T let this happen. he WON’T. he says it like george can help it, like he can’t tell that the light’s already leaving his eyes, like he can’t feel him going limp in his arms by the second -- 

“ georgie, come on, man ----- ”

it’s AGGRESSIVE this time. the hand on his face moves around to the back of his head again, cringing at the way it caves in, the wrong way. he says it the way somebody would react to a joke gone too far, desperate to make it stop, for everyone to laugh and say they’re just kidding.

then the tears start to fall. he doesn’t want to believe it. how could he? georgie’s been by his side his whole life. he’s been there for him through everything -- through his tumultuous adolescence, through his first real heartbreak, through every embarrassing baseball inning and all the victorious ones, too. georgie was there for it all, and santi couldn’t even be there for him this one time. the ONE time he needed him.

suddenly he’s ANGRY. so angry his hands shake and his body feels like it’s caving in, threatening to implode. he pulls georgie closer to his chest and lets out a HEARTWRENCHING sob -- bloodcurdling, his face pressed into the shoulder of the boy’s cotton shirt, stained a dark, dark red. he wants to scream, so he does. screams and sobs and cries and clings to the boy in his arms and god forbid anybody touches him.

and somebody does.

“ WHICH one of you ?! ” he roars, nearly giving himself whiplash with how fast he turns his body, face bright red with how hard he’s crying. he can barely breathe, dragging in ragged breaths. he doesn’t even know who touched his shoulder in an attempt to console him, doesn’t care. everybody’s six feet away, at least, but he feels like he’s miles apart from the nearest person.

“ WHO DID IT ?! ” his voice grows impossibly louder, another wave of angry tears pushing their way out, streaming down his face, falling from his chin, wetting georgie’s shirt below him. “ MURDERERS !! all of you ! ”

and then, all at once, he deflates with another ragged sob, body crumpling inwards, curling over georgie’s as he cradles him. the boy -- his body -- feels like a thousand pounds in his lap, the weight of the world pressing down on santi’s shoulders, caving him in. quiet murmurs give way to silence, save for santi’s wracked sobs, muffled and defeated. BROKEN.

“ ---------georgie.... ”